Letters From the Lost (33 page)

I am not a hysterical person. I consider myself a rational adult. I do not have panic attacks. Still, the moment I set foot inside that cavernous station
with its high stone walls, I froze. I could not take a single step toward the dark tunnel that led to my track. What the mind did not remember, the body knew.

I began to weep. At first softly, and then hysterically. I could not breathe, I could not speak, I could not move. Just like my father must have done 60 years earlier, Martin scooped me in his arms and carried me to the track. I remember watching Tracey get on the train to find me a compartment. From the safety of Martin’s arms, I saw her put my bags up on a rack. Still, I could not move. Only after the conductor called his “All Aboard” did I feel arms lift me up the steps to the corridor where I clung to a bar at the window as the train pulled out. I clung to that bar for hours, all the way to Prague, urging that train to go faster, pushing it forward with my last ounce of strength.

————

I COULD NOT BEAR TO BE
alone that first evening in Prague. Fortunately, Rick’s brother Fred had already arrived so that for a few hours, I was able to pretend that we were normal tourists. We wandered through the maze of narrow streets to the old town with its celebrated clock tower where the puppet Death chases the unwary with each chime of the hour. We checked out the restaurants and cafés, we ate a good meal and talked of our families safely at home in Canada.

The next morning, Rick and his partner joined us along with his cousin and her father. For several days, we played tourist, crossing the ancient Charles Bridge that spans the Vltava River, visiting the Hrad any Castle on the hill, checking out the souvenirs and pretending that Prague for us was merely an exquisite medieval city, a beautiful not-to-be-missed spot on the tourist trail.

One of the many must-see destinations in Prague is the old Jewish quarter. Because Jews had no Civil Rights until 1848 and because for centuries they had been confined to the ghetto and not allowed to live amongst their Christian neighbours, some 20,000 bodies had to be buried, body upon body in the tiny walled cemetery.

I watched as tour buses disgorged visitors to gape at the hodgepodge of leaning stone markers. I listened as tour guides described the strange and quaint customs of the Jews. I felt like a member of an extinct species. I shuddered as several tour guides brushed away the past as natural resentment because
“the Jews were rich.”
I thought of my family who had huddled a few blocks away with only the contents of a suitcase.

It was time for me to stop playing tourist. The next day, I went in search of an address I had brought with me. Number 32 Manesova, the address on the last letter from my father’s brother, Arnold.

————

NUMBER 32 MANESOVA
is an unmodernized apartment block with a heavy front door and neither nameplates nor a buzzer system. My only option was to sit on the step and wait. In due time, someone with a dog came home, and I unceremoniously inserted my foot before the door closed in my face. The man spoke neither English nor German nor French and my Czech is nil. I managed to convey the message that I was not going to leave. Eventually, he sighed, knocked on a downstairs door where he excitedly conferred with someone before stomping up the stairs to knock on another door. Soon, a woman descended and somewhat warily, approached.

She was the answer to my prayers. She had a degree from the Sorbonne as do I. French became for us the universal language it had once been for so many of the world’s educated. She invited me upstairs to her apartment where I apologized for my brazen behaviour. I explained why I had seen no other option.

When I uttered the name Arnold Waldstein, she seemed to blanch. Piling coincidence upon coincidence, she told me that she knew his wife who until very recently had lived in the apartment just across the hall. Mme Waldstein had only recently been taken by her nephew to an old-age home where she had died. The apartment was now occupied by a new tenant.

From deep in the recesses of memory came the sound of my parents discussing the new woman in Arnold’s life. Arnold must have married her. I explained to my hostess that when the letters from Arnold stopped, all my
questions about him went unanswered. Neither of my parents ever spoke another word about him.

The silence grew. An ancient grandfather clock on the wall ticked hypnotically, its pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth. At last, my hostess spoke:

“That was actually your uncle’s clock and this was actually his apartment. ”

I stared, dumbfounded.

“Mme Waldstein didn’t want to live here anymore after her husband died. She had this big place and my husband and I were living with our children in the much smaller apartment across the hall. During the Communist days, it was impossible to get another apartment, so we simply traded. That is why her name is still in the phone book. It used to take ten years to get a new phone, so people simply kept what was in place and gave their friends the number.”

As she rose to fetch the phone book, my thoughts skipped back to the letters I now knew by heart. After the war, Otto had gone back to Strobnitz and arranged for my parents’ furniture to be shipped to Arnold’s half-empty apartment. In his last letter, Arnold had written,
“the big buffet, three large chests, table, and sofa now grace my new apartment where they remind me constantly of my dear brother and his good wife Gretl.”

I sat edgily on the sturdy sofa of the apartment at 32 Manesova. Had I once curled up on this cushion, listening to adult conversation? I stared at the heavy furniture that filled the room, but no memories surfaced. Perhaps my hostess knew what had happened to Arnold. Perhaps she could explain why there had been no more letters. I told her of my parents’ silence.

“So you don’t know the end of the story? I never met your uncle. He died before I moved into the building. Mme Waldstein told me that she was his second wife. She knew that he had suffered greatly, but it was not something we talked about.”

“Did Mme Waldstein ever say anything about when or how he died? I wonder if his body was so weakened by what he went through in Auschwitz that he died soon after.”

“No, they had a number of years together. Happy years, according to Mme Waldstein. It’s another reason she didn’t want to live in this apartment any longer after what happened.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“Your parents never told you? You really don’t know? Mme Waldstein found him.”

“Found him?”

“Yes. He had come home early from work one day. She was not home yet and he decided to have a bath. Something went wrong in the pipes. Terribly wrong. Nobody knows how it happened. Gas came out. She found him dead in this very bathtub. Come, I will show you where it happened.”

Gas. Auschwitz. They told people they were showers, but gas came out of the pipes. Numbly, I stared at the claw-footed tub, its enamel well worn in several spots. Several pipes ran up the wall and across the ceiling.

In silence, I followed my hostess back to the living room where she opened the glass door of a small china cabinet. There, she removed a very delicate cup and saucer and handed it to me.

“Mme Waldstein painted china as a hobby. She gave me this. I think it is now your turn to have it.”

————

THE NEXT DAY, I WENT BACK
alone to the Jewish quarter. This time, my destination was the rather nondescript building that constitutes the Jewish Community Centre. A security guard checked my bag and I passed through a metal detector more sensitive than those at the airport. Inside, a few aging men were drinking coffee in the small restaurant. There appeared little here to warrant such scrupulous security.

Under the watchful eye of the guard, I mounted the stairs to an office where elderly women sat hunched over typewriters. The office was a warren of small cubicles, but soon, I found the right place. A kind woman directed me to a wall of drawers holding 4x6 file cards.

The cards bear the names of every Jew shipped from Prague to the concentration camps. As Arnold had written, every Jew remaining in Czechoslovakia was first sent to Prague before being dispatched to a concentration camp. Once the Jews were all assembled in one place, it had been easy to move them out, like shipments of goods. Indeed, each
card bears a “transport” number along with the last known address of the person.

It was here that I found the information I had not wanted to find. Here, on these green file cards, the name of every Jew had been recorded along with the date and number of the transport. It was important to keep track, to make sure that every Jew had been shipped out.

Some cards have dates of death; most do not. It was not important to keep track of when a Jew died.

The kind woman took all my file cards and made photocopies. She stamped each one, and signed it.
“That makes it an official record if you should ever need it.”
There was no charge for this service.

My quest had been successful, yet I felt more disoriented than ever. Once more, I found myself walking through the Jewish quarter. It was early in the day, but already the area was crammed with tour buses. With a desultory eye, I wandered through the museum, gazing at artefacts that once had graced Jewish homes, Sabbath candlesticks. Hand embroidered tablecloths. Good china. Silver menorahs. Had one of these come from my family’s home?

Adjacent to the museum is another ancient structure, this one empty except for the bronze plaques on its walls. The plaques are engraved with
77,
297 names. Each name is that of a Czech Jew killed in the Holocaust. I search for the handful of names that are “mine” while from a loudspeaker, a detached voice intones each name. I need not fear hearing the names repeated. It takes several days to complete the cycle.

————

I KNEW WHERE I HAD
to go next. There was no choice. Theresienstadt.

Theresienstadt, or Teresin as it is called in Czech, was once a concentration camp. Not a death camp like Auschwitz, the books hasten to add. There-sienstadt was “only” a concentration camp. It had no ovens and no gas chambers. It was simply the destination to which the Jews from Prague were shipped. It is true that many Jews died there, but this was an unfortunate consequence. Conditions were deplorable, but this was not Auschwitz.

Fred and the cousins stared, as if I were mad. They had no intention of going there. Rick and his partner hesitated, and then decided they too would stay in Prague. I understood, for I too had been uncertain that I could make the pilgrimage.

Because Theresienstadt is only an hour from Prague, there are many tour buses advertising this “unique opportunity” to see a concentration camp. For me, it was out of the question to join a group of tourists.

On foot, I made my way to the public bus station and checked out the schedule. The next bus left in an hour. Impatiently I wandered the nearby streets, willing the time to pass. At a small outdoor market, I spotted leather jackets made in China and realized that I was already chilled to the bone on this warm autumn day. I translated Kronen into dollars and found a green jacket that cost only seventeen dollars. I counted out the cash and snuggled into its comforting warmth.

When the bus arrived, I selected a seat near the front so that I could read the signs rather than rely on my ability to understand the bus driver. At last, I saw ahead the signboard: Teresin. To my left loomed a huge cross. A cross? I had expected a Star of David to mark the last earthly destination of so many Jews. I double-checked with the driver, but he nodded affirmatively. This was definitely Teresin.

A young couple dismounted with me. Shyly, they asked if they could walk with me, having noted that my linguistic skills were at least better than their own. I was pleased to have company. We crossed the spacious car park filled with tour buses. Many of the visitors were eating hot dogs or licking ice cream cones. Souvenir kiosks rimmed the car park.

We paid admission, picked up maps and passed under the red brick archway into the walled fortress. Above us, in bold yellow brick letters stood the famous words: arbeit macht frei. I pulled the leather jacket more tightly across my chest.

We consulted the map and headed for the first barrack. It was empty, except for a narrow wooden bench bearing a few rusty tools. Other barracks stood empty. The carefully swept wood floors bore no trace of those who once filled these spaces. Other barracks had the tiered bunk beds where, sardine like, humans once slept head to toe.

Teresin concentration camp, where my grandparents
along with most of my immediate family must have peered
through the window bars, hoping, longing, despairing . . .

A long underground corridor came next. We entered it through a large stone cave with windows only at the very top. The guidebook says that the windows permitted some circulation of air as well as allowing the inhabitants to hear the ringing of the church bells that they could not see. The rest of the underground corridor overlooks windowless cells. Here, even further underground, is where “uncooperative inhabitants” were kept. By now, I was deeply grateful to the young couple who had adopted me. The young man had taken my arm to steady me as I stumbled through the lightless dungeon.