Running With Ivan, page 11
‘Psst,’ I heard, ‘psst.’ I turned around to find Ivan lying on the bunk behind me. A middle bunk, of course, and I felt a stab of envy to see him there.
Then he motioned to the bunk beside him. ‘I saved it for you,’ he said. ‘Now we just need a cupboard or a wardrobe for our stuff.’
Behind us, someone started laughing. We soon found out why. There were no cupboards here, no wardrobes and no shelves either. The beds themselves were bare apart from a grey woollen blanket on each. There were no pillows and no sheets.
Ivan had sheets, though — crisp sheets, neatly folded in his suitcase — but he hadn’t even taken them out.
‘Aren’t you going to make up your bed?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer.
‘Well, aren’t you?’
Still he didn’t reply.
That’s when it clicked: he probably didn’t have the faintest idea how to make a bed. I did, though. When Mum got sick, it had been my job to change everyone’s sheets.
‘I’ll do it,’ I offered.
For a moment, he ignored me. Then he gave me a nod. ‘Thanks.’
Once I’d finished — the sheets folded back, the blanket tucked in — I had to admit I’d done a pretty good job of it. Beside Ivan’s newly made bed, my bare mattress looked pretty awful and I stared at it in dismay.
From his suitcase, Ivan pulled out a second set of sheets. ‘Cheer up,’ he said, ‘you can use these.’
There was a table in the middle of the room, and Emil was sitting at it, surrounded by paperwork.
‘You,’ he said, calling me over. ‘What’s your name?’
I felt my stomach churn. ‘Leo,’ I said softly.
‘Leo who?’
‘Leo Arnold.’
He frowned. ‘There’s no Leo Arnold on my list.’
Ivan’s voice carried across the room. ‘He’s my cousin. We were called up together.’
Emil looked up. ‘And you are?’
‘Mandl, Ivan.’ He said the words very slowly and very deliberately, as though pronouncing the name of an emperor. Oddly enough, it seemed to work, for Emil’s expression completely changed. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘you’re the Mandl boy. Any news of your father?’
Ivan flinched. ‘No news,’ he said. ‘I hoped he might be here.’
Emil looked doubtful. ‘We would have heard about it. Your father wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.’
Ivan lowered his head. ‘I see,’ he said softly.
‘And you say Leo is your cousin?’
He didn’t falter. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s right.’
Emil scratched at the side of his neck. ‘Strange I don’t have a record of him. I have you, but I don’t have him. Perhaps he’s supposed to be in another room. I’ll need to look into it.’ He was almost murmuring to himself now.
‘Please don’t,’ said Ivan. ‘Let us stay together. My father would want that. He’d be thankful to you for it.’
I watched Emil hesitate, then nod. ‘All right,’ he said.
15
There was a soccer match scheduled in the afternoon: the boys from Room 11 against the boys from Room 8. Ivan offered me some shorts and a top, but he only had one pair of soccer boots, so I had to wear my sneakers.
Emil hurried us out of the building, calling to me to keep going when I stopped to stare at the circus tent across the road. ‘Is there going to be a show?’ I asked once I’d caught up.
That made Emil smile. ‘I doubt it. They’re supposed to be using it for factory work. Packing or something.’
The playing field was on the other side of the town. We hadn’t been walking for long when Ivan clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘That stinks,’ he spluttered. ‘That really stinks.’
He was right. It smelt like a public toilet block, only a thousand times worse. It was so bad I thought I’d vomit. Some of the boys were grimacing, too; others were covering their faces. But Emil just kept walking. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said.
I tried not to gag. ‘What is it?’
‘The town was never meant for so many people. The sewerage system can’t cope with everyone, so the toilets don’t work properly. That’s why it smells.’
‘But why doesn’t someone fix it?’ I winced.
‘Because no one cares. Hitler and his men hate Jews, so why would they want to make things better for us? If we want anything done, we have to work out how to do it ourselves.’
The smell subsided as we kept on walking. Soon there was a different smell: one that made my stomach grumble. It was the smell of bread baking.
‘Is this where we buy bread?’ I asked.
Emil laughed. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? That you could buy bread at a bakery. Not here. Here, there is very little to purchase — some coffee if you have the tokens for it, or some used clothes. Apart from that, nothing really. Food is distributed, not bought. That’s how it works here.’
‘But why?’
‘Because, my dear Leo, this is not a proper town. This is somewhere to put Jews so Hitler can pretend we don’t exist, a place where we’re forced together and can’t leave.’
‘What, never?’
‘Not by choice. Although they have begun to send some people east.’
‘East?’
‘That’s all we’ve been told: that they’re sending people east, to work. No one knows where, exactly.’
We’d left the road and were gathered on the field now. Although, to be honest, it couldn’t really be called a field. It was just a square piece of land with a bit of grass on it. At least there were goalposts, even if they did look more like floorboards hammered together and stuck in the ground.
The competitors from Room 8 were already on the field, kicking a strange-looking ball made of brown leather strips. It looked more like a baseball glove than a soccer ball.
Emil threw me a white bib. ‘Stop gawking and get out there.’
As soon as the whistle blew, it was clear that Hubert Nagel was the star of the Room 11 soccer team. He was at least twice my size and super agile. With lightning speed he dribbled the ball down the field until he was almost within striking distance.
‘Hubert,’ called another boy, who was closer to the goalposts. I saw Hubert hesitate. Pass it, I murmured, but he didn’t. He eyed up the goalposts instead — even though he wasn’t nearly close enough and couldn’t possibly score. I was too scared to watch; I had to close my eyes.
Then I heard the shouting. ‘Tor! Tor!’
It was a goal.
Unbelievable.
Now the ball was in play again and a boy called Honza was dribbling it towards centre field.
I felt a bolt of energy. ‘Pass,’ I called to him, ‘pass.’ And to my surprise, he did.
There wasn’t time to get nervous. On auto-pilot, I dribbled the ball up left field until the goalposts were within sight, then within reach. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ivan. ‘Leo,’ he shouted, ‘over here.’
Ignoring him, I took the shot myself.
‘Tor!’ shouted the referee.
There was shouting then, shouting and cheering. For me! I was ecstatic. I was completely beside myself.
By half time, the Room 11 boys were winning 3-1. Then the Room 8 boys began to close in, and with fifteen minutes left to go, it was three all.
There was a penalty in Room 11’s favour and Hubert took the kick. He passed the ball to me and I dribbled it up the field. I ran hard, trying not to lose control of the ball, trying to keep it close. Soon I was just about near enough to score. Again. I’d be a hero, then, an absolute hero.
Ivan was on my right, hissing at me. ‘Pass,’ he said. But I wouldn’t.
He didn’t let up. ‘Pass,’ he kept insisting, ‘pass.’ And when I shot him a quick look, it was enough to make my heart sink: he was in the perfect position to shoot a straight goal, right down the centre of the posts.
Just shoot, whispered a voice inside me, think what a legend you’ll be when you score.
But another voice was louder. Pass, you really need to pass it, and now.
So I did. I passed the ball. Ivan was ready for it — more than ready: he seemed almost desperate for it. Once he had it, he took the shot. The goalkeeper dived for the ball but missed, as the ball hurtled past him and flew through the posts.
Goal!
Ivan was doing a circle run now, hands in the air, his face red and beaming as the final whistle blew.
And Ivan was the hero of the match when it could have been me. My stomach churned with envy — I couldn’t help myself — and with hunger now, too.
I was so hungry, so very hungry, but no one had any food. Nothing. Not even a snack.
‘When’s dinner?’ I asked.
Someone laughed. ‘I’m not sure I’d call it dinner.’
Later, when I saw what was on offer, I wasn’t sure I’d call it dinner either. Two slices of dark brown bread. That was it.
‘There’s only ever bread for dinner,’ said Emil. ‘For lunch there’s stew but for dinner there’s only bread.’
Now I felt like crying. ‘But I’m still hungry.’
Emil’s smile was sympathetic. ‘You’ll get used to it. We’re all hungry here, all the time. You learn to deal with it.’
But I didn’t want to learn to deal with it. I just wanted something to eat. And later that night when I was in bed, I couldn’t think of anything else. The mattress was thin and itchy, and I couldn’t stop scratching. All around me, boys were snoring and tossing and thumping. There was a scurrying sound, too. What was that? My eyes were starting to close but I knew I wouldn’t sleep with all that noise, I just knew it.
So I was surprised to find the room light-filled when I opened my eyes again. Emil was at the table once more, serving breakfast this time. I let myself be hopeful, but not for long. Breakfast was simply a re-run of dinner: two slices of bread with only a teaspoon of marmalade to go with it.
There was coffee, too. Emil scooped out a cupful from a big pot and handed it to me. I took a sip then spat it out. ‘What is this stuff?’
Emil’s lips twitched. ‘We call it Hitler coffee. They make it from turnips.’
‘Turnips?’
Emil smiled. ‘That’s right, my friend: you’re drinking turnip coffee.’
The thought of it made me queasy. ‘I used to have hot chocolate for breakfast,’ I said, my voice wavering.
Emil rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘And I hope you will again once this is all over. But for now, it’ll have to be turnip coffee.’
A few days later, Emil called us over, both Ivan and me. He had work for us: as runners for the Council of Elders. ‘They need two boys who are fast and reliable. The match showed me you’re fast. The question is: are you also reliable?’
Ivan spoke first. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we’re both extremely reliable.’
Emil looked to me for confirmation. ‘Yes,’ I mumbled, ‘we are.’ But what on earth was the Council of Elders? It sounded magical, like something from Harry Potter, so I was disappointed to find myself in the hallway of an ordinary building, waiting with Ivan for something to happen. Finally something did happen: a short, rushed man ushered us into a very small room filled with letters and parcels. His name was Mr Meyer and he barely looked up as he gave us our orders. Our first job would be easy enough, he told us. We were to take some letters over to the clothing warehouse and present ourselves to the gendarme in charge. Gendarmes were Czech soldiers who worked as guards in Theresienstadt. With their deep green uniform, shiny gold buttons and rifle slung over one shoulder, they were hard to miss. If the gendarme at the clothing warehouse had a task for us, we should complete it, Mr Meyer instructed us. If not, we should return to the office.
There were barracks everywhere in Theresienstadt. The clothing warehouse was part of the Aussiger Barracks, which lay just outside the fortress walls. Special permission was required to go there.
That sounds sort of exciting, I thought, keen to get going. When we’d made it to the other side of the town, a gendarme was standing guard in front of the Aussiger Barracks. ‘Your authority?’ he demanded.
The question made me nervous. We had no authority, at least none I’d seen. Ivan didn’t look the least bit worried, though. He just showed the gendarme the letters we’d been given to deliver and waited to be let through. It worked: without another word, the gendarme led us over to the clothing warehouse. Inside, groups of workers were surrounded by piles of clothes and rows of suitcases.
A chill passed through me.
So many suitcases! What were they all doing here? And what, I suddenly thought, had happened to their owners?
Some workers were standing at long tables sorting through the clothes, some were unpacking suitcases and others were sitting and sewing. All of them were women.
No, that wasn’t quite right. There were two men in the room — two gendarmes — and one of them was striding towards us, his boots loud on the hard floor.
Once we’d handed him the letters we’d been asked to deliver, the gendarme directed us to a tower of wooden crates by the front door. ‘They’ll need to be taken to the clothes shop,’ he said before turning around and leaving us to it.
My mouth dropped. How could we possibly carry so many crates?
Ivan just shrugged. ‘It’ll be fine.’
I didn’t believe him. ‘So how do we do it then?’
He cast an eye around the room. ‘With that,’ he announced.
When I followed his gaze, all I saw was a narrow wooden cart, but Ivan was looking pleased with himself. ‘Now we just need a horse.’
From behind us came the sound of muffled laughing. I turned to find a girl sitting at one of the sorting tables, a hand clapped over her mouth.
‘You’re the horses,’ she said once she’d lowered her hand, her German soft and lilting. ‘There are no horses here, so you’ll need to do their work instead.’
Ivan raised an eyebrow. ‘You must be joking.’
‘And you must be newly arrived.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘In which case, let me welcome you to the resort. I’m Olinda, Olinda Brand.’
She had long blonde-brown hair that fell past her shoulders, and skin that was dotted with tiny brown freckles. She was taller than me but smaller than Ivan. If I had to guess, I’d say she was fourteen.
Ivan shook her hand, a bit too tightly and a little too vigorously. ‘I’m Ivan,’ he said, before flicking his head in my direction. ‘And this is Leo.’
‘Hi,’ I mumbled, my face starting to burn as I searched for something interesting to say. Before I’d thought of anything, her attention was back on Ivan.
‘The resort?’ he was echoing.
She gave a laugh that was more like a groan. ‘Where I come from in Germany, this is how Theresienstadt was advertised: as a resort for Jewish people. People even paid to come here, can you believe it? They were told it would be beautiful, that everything would be wonderful. You can imagine the disappointment. No resort, just sorting out clothes instead, day after day.’
‘Every day?’ asked Ivan.
She shook her head. ‘Most days, but not every day. With my mother, too, before the transport.’ Her voice faltered. ‘She and my father, they were both on a transport.’
Ivan’s forehead creased. ‘Transport?’
‘East, to Poland. That’s the rumour.’
‘Why Poland?’
She shrugged. ‘For work. At least that’s what most people think. Even the old people — which is strange, since most old people don’t work at all. There’s a German officer who sometimes comes here. To check up on things. They call him Heindel. He’s always got a dog, so if you see a German officer with a dog, you’ll know it’s him. The thing is, there’s always another transport after he’s been.’ She stopped to catch herself. ‘My parents were taken in January. Already it’s May and I’ve heard nothing.’
Ivan’s face fell. ‘Me either,’ he murmured.
‘Oh,’ she said. She started to say more, then stopped, returning instead to the clothes in front of her. One by one she shook them out, folded them, then put them in the crate beside her.
I soon saw why she’d fallen silent: the other gendarme was approaching. ‘Cesky?’ he asked Ivan.
When Ivan nodded, the gendarme spoke to him in Czech. After he’d finished, Ivan gave me a grimace. ‘Which side do you want?’
I shook my head, confused.
‘Turns out she’s right,’ he said, ‘there are no horses. Just us.’ He jutted his chin towards the cart. ‘That’s how we’re supposed to deliver the crates.’
‘What, like we’re horses?’
‘Yep.’
Except we weren’t horses and when the cart was packed with crates we couldn’t even budge it. One of the gendarmes had to push down on the shafts to help us tip the wagon up. Only then could we manage to push it through the doors of the warehouse and out onto the street — where the surface was bumpy and the wheels kept getting stuck between the cobblestones. And although it couldn’t have been more than a kilometre to the clothes shop, it seemed to take forever.
The sign said Open, but the shop itself looked closed and the display window was so smeared it was hard to see through it.
I knocked; no one answered. So I knocked again, more loudly. Only then did the door open. An old woman stood in the doorway, her head covered in a scarf, bits of grey hair escaping at the sides.
She seemed pleased to see the cart. ‘Bring it all in,’ she told us. Her German was rolling and musical, just like my mum had spoken it.
One by one, we brought the crates inside. The shop was small and dark, a rack of clothes along one side of the room and open shelves on the other. Rows of shoes were lined up against one wall and at the back of the shop was an old desk being used as the counter.
The woman began to rummage through the crates. ‘The best clothes are sent to Germany,’ she said. ‘We just get the leftovers.’
Shaking out an olive-coloured overcoat, she gave a low murmur. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t take this for themselves.’
She took a look at Ivan. ‘Too small,’ she said before inclining her head towards me. ‘But it would be good for you.’
