Along with Milka-her real name was Bohumila Polaek-two other girls had come to Room 28: Vera Nath and Hana Wertheimer, who was nicknamed Hanka. The three had known one another in Prague, where they had been stranded after their flights from their hometowns. Hanka was originally from Znojmo, Vera from Opava. Both towns were in the Sudetenland, the border region of the Czech Republic that contained a German majority. The Sudetenland had been under German rule since the autumn of 1938. Milka came from Chrastany, a small town in southern Bohemia.

The new roommates awakened old memories in those who knew them from Prague-above all memories of their time together at Hagibor, the Jewish athletic field. Pavla Seiner and Hanka Wertheimer- both tall, athletic girls-had been among the best dodgeball players there. Everyone wanted Hanka in particular on their team, for not only could she run fast and catch a hard-thrown ball, but she could also throw with real power.

Hagibor. For every Holocaust survivor who had spent time on the Jewish athletic field in Prague-Stranice between 1940 and 1942, the very word evoked hope and confidence. In the midst of hatred, prohibitions, persecution, and fear, that place was like an island, where the word "future" was infused with life and where Jewish children's self-confidence, which had been so badly undermined, could be rebuilt and restored. "When I think of Hagibor, I think of happy times," Hanka recalls enthusiastically. "Hagibor was a very long way from our apartment, and I often walked the whole distance. Sometimes if I couldn't find a friend to go with me, I hid my yellow star and went by streetcar. To avoid arousing suspicion I would go one stop farther and then walk back. But of course I was always afraid."

Bohumila ("Milka") Polaek (far right) (far right) in the garden of her house in Chrastany. With her are in the garden of her house in Chrastany. With her are (left to right) (left to right) her cousin Ha.n.u.s Lederer; her father, Vojte Polaek; her brother, Jiri Polaek; and her cousin Hanna Lederer her cousin Ha.n.u.s Lederer; her father, Vojte Polaek; her brother, Jiri Polaek; and her cousin Hanna Lederer.

But once they were there, the fear was forgotten for a little while. Through athletics, games, and songs, the pressure on a group of psychologically battered children fell away for a few hours. "We were almost happy at Hagibor," Eva Landa recalls. "There was something resembling normal life for us on the athletic field. There were track-and-field events, gymnastics, acrobatics; we could ice-skate in winter. It often felt like the Spartacus Games. There were various compet.i.tions and team games. We danced and sang-especially Zionist songs."

Fredy Hirsch at Hagibor, the Jewish athletic field in Prague Ela adds, "Toward evening potato soup would be cooked over an open fire. For me, that was always the best part. I can still taste that potato soup."

There was a special atmosphere at Hagibor, which is Hebrew for "the strong man." It was not just about being athletically active, as the very colors of the uniforms indicated. They were blue and white, the colors of the Zionist movement.

Most important was to instill in the children hope and the courage to face life, and to prepare them to live in Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel. They learned Morse code, practiced tying knots, and sometimes military commands in Hebrew rang out- "Smolah pnei, yeminah pnei, kadimah, tza'ad" "Smolah pnei, yeminah pnei, kadimah, tza'ad" ("Left, right, forward march, halt!")-as children followed the orders of their group leaders, among them Nita Petschau and Dita Sachs, who were in charge of the ten-to-twelve-year-old girls. ("Left, right, forward march, halt!")-as children followed the orders of their group leaders, among them Nita Petschau and Dita Sachs, who were in charge of the ten-to-twelve-year-old girls.

Sometimes, however, the three to four hundred children would come together in rank and file and Fredy Hirsch, the legendary leader of Hagibor and of the Zionist youth organization Hechalutz, would take over, whistle in hand. Whenever Fredy appeared, everything seemed more welcoming. The children loved this young man with his well-trained body and wavy black hair. He always had a smile and an encouraging word for them. The fact that this emigre from Aachen in Germany spoke broken Czech did not detract in the slightest from the enchantment he radiated.

"If a young Jew decides to live for his people, he has to go to Hachsharah [Zionist training camp], become a worker in Eretz Yisrael, and conquer the soil. But first and foremost, he must overcome his own fear and lethargy, get involved in sports, do gymnastics, steel his body, and make good use of his compet.i.tive drive."9 These were the words that kept echoing across the Jewish athletic field. Fredy Hirsch was a charismatic speaker, and he inspired many children to become pa.s.sionate Zionists. To meet him was to remember him forever. These were the words that kept echoing across the Jewish athletic field. Fredy Hirsch was a charismatic speaker, and he inspired many children to become pa.s.sionate Zionists. To meet him was to remember him forever.

"Fredy was almost like a G.o.d to us," Eva Landa recalls. "We even sang a song about him, with the melody taken from the Czech folk song 'Two Wanderers Stood on an Ant Hill.' It went, 'Life would be gray without Fredy's whistle / He whistles so hard we turn pale.' We sang that song over and over with great enthusiasm."

Vera Nath adds: "The person I shall always remember, the person I took to my heart-that was Fredy Hirsch. He did so much for us! He made it possible for us to have a beautiful summer back then in Prague."

In the early 1940s nearly all the Jewish children in Prague encountered one another at some point, and many friendships that had begun there were later renewed in Theresienstadt. When Hanka, Milka, and Vera were a.s.signed to Room 28, they saw familiar faces, and so they did not find it too difficult to join in the life of the community.

Vera Nath had arrived in Theresienstadt on July 8, 1943, and she was glad to be placed in Room 28. She was still in shock: as if by a miracle, she and her family had escaped the September transport. They had already pa.s.sed through the "sluice" and their baggage had been loaded. Just as they were approaching the train, a young man who could not bear to see his mother go by herself pushed his way forward. The moment he boarded, the quota of twenty-five hundred people was met, and the doors closed. Without a moment's hesitation, the Nath family turned around.

Vera was a strikingly pretty girl with gentle, dark eyes. She was dainty and very reserved. It is hard to say if that trait was inborn or the result of her childhood experiences. "I stopped trying to make friends early on," she says today. "All my friends kept disappearing. I had a close girlfriend in Prague, Suse Pick from atec. She and her family were deported to Lodz. Then I was in another group with two boys my age, Rus and Jerry. Their father was a soccer player. We often played together in the Old Jewish Cemetery. They were born in America, which made them American citizens, so they didn't have to wear a star. Sometimes they brought me ice cream from the grocery store, which had been forbidden to me for some time. But they disappeared, too, from one day to the next. What a horrible thing it is, when friends that you've just come to know simply vanish and you don't know where they went. You simply never hear from them again."

It became second nature for Vera not to get too close to anyone, to consciously avoid seeking out friendships. In Theresienstadt she had her parents and her sister-that was the main thing. She became open to friendships much later, after she had begun a new life in Israel and could provide her children with what she had so painfully missed in her own childhood. "Once I had my own children, I made sure that they never had to switch cla.s.ses or schools. I did not want them torn from familiar surroundings. I didn't want them to keep losing friends and having to look for new ones."

Hanka Wertheimer's upbringing and att.i.tude were very different. Hanka was a tall, athletic, sociable girl with a winning and hearty laugh. She was accepted into Room 28 from the first, even by girls who did not know her. Hanka had a delightful personality. And as young as she was, she knew what she wanted: She wanted to go to Palestine.

In her parents' home, the ideas of Theodor Herzl had been the dominant topic of conversation, and so it was no surprise that she had joined the Zionist youth organization Tekhelet-Lavan (Blue-White) at the age of six. The events of the next few years only intensified Hanka's longing for Palestine. In Prague, where her parents had fled from Znojmo in the autumn of 1938, Hanka had quickly formed a circle of close friends whose hopes and ideas were bound up with the Zionist cause.

Hanka met most of these friends again in Theresienstadt, and soon a regular meeting was arranged, every Friday evening, in the little shed in the courtyard of Boys' Home L 417, which housed an electrical workshop. The group called itself Dror, which is Hebrew for "bird" and a symbol of freedom. They spoke about Palestine, learned Hebrew, expanded their knowledge of agriculture, and discussed the Zionist books they read together. Occasionally they would share a piece of bread or a bun. "And once," Hanka recalls, "we made cheese out of sour milk and devoured it with gusto."

Hanka's friends Resinka Schwarz and Miriam Rosenzweig were part of the group, as well as a few boys from Home 5-Jika Broll, Micha Honigwachs, Yehuda Bacon, and Hanka's first boyfriend and first love, Yehuda Huppert, who was nicknamed Polda.

Whenever Hanka took a walk with Polda around the block of Building L 410, she could count on being followed by curious eyes gazing from the upstairs windows. "As soon as we saw one of our girls taking a walk with a boy outside the Home, it was instantly the talk of the room, and soon everyone was at the window to see what they were doing," Handa recalls. "Are they holding hands? Are they walking close together or apart? Are they kissing? What are they up to? Where are they going? There really wasn't much to see. These couples were very young and shy. Usually they walked half a mile apart. But all the same-it was always very exciting for the rest of us."

Especially when Eva Landa and Harry Kraus walked past. "They were a very famous couple in our minds, because they really were going together and met often. And Eva was a beauty," Handa recalls. She can also remember "Eva knitting a cap for Harry, with long braids attached, which was all the rage at the time. And he always wore it, summer and winter-that's how much he loved her."

Eva and Harry had first become acquainted in Prague, at the Jewish School on Jachymova Street, where both were in the fourth grade during the 194041 school year. At first Eva had felt flattered by Harry's obvious interest in her, but she had not taken his feelings seriously and had definitely not returned his attentions. She was only eleven years old and Harry was the first boy to fall in love with her. He was short and athletic, sometimes very funny and witty, if not as ambitious in school as Eva, who was always among the top students. Since they shared the same route to school, they often met before and after cla.s.ses and occasionally went for a walk in the Jewish cemetery, one of the few places besides Hagibor that was still open to Jewish children.

This was a time when children grew up a lot more quickly than nature had intended. The pressure of events broke through the wall that normally separates the adult world from the children's world. The curiosity, playfulness, and simple joy that usually drew children to one another were now replaced by a shared fear of a world of deprivation and humiliation.

Eva had been the first to be put on a transport. As Harry said his goodbyes, he pressed a letter in her hand. She was so distraught that she locked herself in the bathroom and wept.

Nine months later, as Eva looked down from an attic window of the Hamburg Barracks, she spotted Harry among the new arrivals. "I was so excited that I came down with a fever. And our friendship continued. I liked him more and more."

Eva has not forgotten those moments. But she did forget the dedication that Harry wrote in her poetry alb.u.m in Theresienstadt. If her friend Handa had not recalled it, Eva would not know it today, because her alb.u.m vanished a few months later, when she arrived at Auschwitz. "Life flows like water," Harry had written, "what a shame to lose a single minute. Your loving Harry."

For some of the girls, the evening promenade with their boyfriends was the highlight of the day. This was also true of Ela, who often went to bed with her head whirling and so full of questions that she could not fall asleep. What had Honza meant by this or that word? By this or that gesture? Was he really in love with her? A thousand questions, the ones that fill the heads of so many young girls her age. But Helga was in no mood to keep up with her friends in this regard-there were, after all, far more important things going on in the world.

Monday, September 13, 1943Italy has surrendered and abandoned Hitler! Tra la la! He's all by himself in the stew! Mussolini quarreled with the king and handed the government over to others. Mussolini is in jail!-Learning is so wonderful! I'm in group A. It's the best group and the equivalent of the third year in gymnasium. We might have Latin, too. Of fifty-seven children, I scored third best on the math test.

A wave of hope swept over Theresienstadt. Mussolini's fall from power appeared to foreshadow a quick end to the war. The news "broadcast" via word of mouth sounded more and more promising. The reports spurred a whole series of programs: lectures, concerts, theatrical performances, and cabarets.

Monday, September 20, 1943What a splendid day. I still haven't recovered. Papa and I attended a play about Franpois Villon-a fifteenth-century French poet. People thought he was a beggar and a bad man. He hated the rich. The text was compiled from selections of his ballads, interspersed with ballet. The scenery was splendidly painted. Villon was played by a mime, but I can't describe it and know that I didn't really understand it. It's a lyrical, yet also political work. It is called thought he was a beggar and a bad man. He hated the rich. The text was compiled from selections of his ballads, interspersed with ballet. The scenery was splendidly painted. Villon was played by a mime, but I can't describe it and know that I didn't really understand it. It's a lyrical, yet also political work. It is called The Beggar's Ballad. The Beggar's Ballad.

Vera Nath Vera Nath and her transport tag, which she was wearing around her neck when she arrived in Theresienstadt Vera Nath was born near the Czech-Polish border in Opava, the capital of the Moravian Silesian region, on March 25, 1930, four years after her sister, Hana. Her father, Hermann Nath, was of Russian heritage and dealt in textiles and carpets. Her mother, Elisabeth Nath, nee Kolb, came from Sop.r.o.n in Hungary.Like most people in Opava, her family spoke German. But in 1936 Vera was sent to a Czech school, in response to the obvious change in the political climate caused by Germany's policy of expansion and as an expression of allegiance to the Czech Republic. The next two years were peaceful ones for Vera, apart from the language problems she faced at school. The family still spent vacations in Hungary or Yugo slavia, or at Spindlermuhle in the Giant Mountains.Then came March 1938 and the annexation of Austria. "We had just returned from a vacation in Yugoslavia, when my Papa suddenly came home very upset and said, 'We must go to Slovakia at once. There might be a plebiscite. It would be better for us not to be here.' I still recall that moment very clearly. I was terribly sad, because I had brought a turtle back from Yugoslavia and had to leave it behind."Six months later, the Sudetenland was occupied and the Naths fled-first to Trenin, then to Brno, and finally to Ostrava in Moravia. There Vera was enrolled in a Jewish school. "People spoke a different Czech from the one I had learned, which was something I didn't like at all. I was very unhappy. I was in the third grade. But I had not even finished the year when the Germans marched in and burned down seven houses of worship, and we fled to Prague."Trapped in Prague, the Nath family met the fate typical of Czech Jews in the years that followed. Although Hermann Nath had a considerable fortune, the n.a.z.is' policy of Aryanization of Jewish property barred him from any access to it. By the time the family finally managed to obtain a visa and tickets for pa.s.sage to Chile, the borders were closed. They were lucky, however, not to have set sail on the ship on which they had booked-the Goral- Goral-which ran into a mine and exploded. There were no survivors. Eventually the Naths, along with four other families, wound up in cramped quarters at Karova 13 in the Old City. They arrived in Theresienstadt on July 8, 1943, on one of the last transports from Prague.

Hanka Wertheimer Hanka Wertheimer was born on December 12, 1929, in Znojmo, an industrial town in southern Moravia, where her grandparents owned a canning factory that was steeped in tradition and famous for its Znaimer pickles and sauerkraut. It was a family business that was run by Hanka's father, Fritz, and several of his siblings.Hanka's mother, Lily Wertheimer, nee Reich, came from Nov Bydzov in Moravia and had studied philology and philosophy at the Sorbonne. She was a progressive, cosmopolitan woman who loved to travel. She was one of the first women in Czechoslovakia to own an automobile and to drive it herself.Hanka had a close relationship with her governess, Maka, who was like a second mother to her and who stayed with the family even as the times grew difficult. After the Wertheimers fled from Znojmo to Prague, their living s.p.a.ce became smaller. Hanka's sister, Miriam, managed to emigrate to Palestine in 1939, but her father was seized by the Gestapo in 1940.From 1941 on, Hanka, her mother, and Maka lived in a little apartment at itna 38, near Wenceslas Square. Maka had rented it in her own name. Although she was a Christian and although the family could no longer afford to pay her, she stayed with them.During this period, Hanka attended the Jewish School at Jachymova 3 and spent most of her weekends at Hagibor, the Jewish athletic field. Life for her became increasingly defined by fear.Then, in May 1942, came the a.s.sa.s.sination of Heydrich and the German reprisals. Prague was put under curfew, with no one allowed on the streets after eight in the evening. The Gestapo began their sweep. Zitna 38 was not spared. "Two SS men with a big dog entered our apartment. Each of us had to show our papers. My mother couldn't find hers. Because my mother spoke very good German, the SS man asked, 'Are you German?' And my mother responded, 'No.'-'Are you Czech?'-'No.'-'Well then, what are you?' And my mother said, 'I'm Jewish.' And the SS man said, 'Quick, quick, your papers!' While my mother looked for her papers-I knew the whole time where they were but didn't know whether she intentionally wasn't finding them or simply couldn't locate them-the building's caretaker told the SS, who were actually looking for men, 'There are no men living here. Only three women.' He was on our side-which was very lucky for us. Once I realized that my mother really couldn't find her papers, I told her where they were. She showed the doc.u.ments, and the SS left. But the fear remained."The order for transport to Theresienstadt came in March 1943. Hanka experienced an odd sense of comfort when it did, because she knew that there she would meet many of her friends and relatives again. She owed her a.s.signment to Room 28 to Rita Bohm, a counselor who was a cousin of her mother's and who told her, "Put her in Room 28. It's the best-run Home."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Light in the Darkness: Brundibar Brundibar.

Wednesday, September 22, 1943Ela and I are like sisters. We share everything, from cottage cheese to pepper. I'd love to have an answer: What is nothing? Nothing doesn't even exist! But there's no such thing as total emptiness either; everything contains something. And then I'd love to know: How can a person imagine infinity-for example, an infinite line or the infinite universe?Lights out in fifteen minutes, so I'll have to stop writing soon.-The lights won't be turned off after all. Eva has promised to leave a light on if we're very quiet. That's fair. I can go on writing and won't have to start in all over again tomorrow morning.Why is there life on Earth? Did nature do it, or is there really a higher power? Who can answer that for me, and whom can I believe? No one knows for sure. I don't believe that our Earth is the only planet where there's life. In infinite s.p.a.ce we're just a tiny island, so why would it be the only one with life on it???I wish humanity's dream of living in peace comes true. If two people live on a little island they become closer and grow fond of each other. And we on Earth are but a little island in infinite s.p.a.ce. We're constantly waging war for more lebensraum- lebensraum-and if we could we would declare war on other planets. Maybe we'll be wiser someday. Maybe someday we'll realize that by constantly waging war on each other we shed blood for nothing.Eva said today that I would be a scientist someday. I don't think so. We won't have enough money after the war. But if I ever have the chance, these are the things I will study.

On September 22, 1943, the premiere of Brundibar Brundibar was just one day away-and so was the twenty-second birthday of its musical director, Rudi Freudenfeld. The children's excitement during rehearsals had been growing by leaps and bounds over the last few days. was just one day away-and so was the twenty-second birthday of its musical director, Rudi Freudenfeld. The children's excitement during rehearsals had been growing by leaps and bounds over the last few days.

Down in the bas.e.m.e.nt of L 410, Kamilla Rosenbaum, the ch.o.r.eographer from Prague, was rehearsing the waltz steps with the young people for the umpteenth time. Tella was at the piano, playing the magical Valse lente cantabile Valse lente cantabile that comes from Brundibar's barrel organ. "One, two, three-girls, left foot forward, right foot to the side and draw the left foot across. The boys just the opposite, always keep the three-quarter time, one, two, three, and stand up straight, don't let your head droop, keep your arms at the level of your eyes and right foot back and left foot to the side and turn, turn in waltz time. Keep an eye on your feet, otherwise you'll be stepping on each other." The children danced and danced, they whirled in circles. The world was whirling with them. that comes from Brundibar's barrel organ. "One, two, three-girls, left foot forward, right foot to the side and draw the left foot across. The boys just the opposite, always keep the three-quarter time, one, two, three, and stand up straight, don't let your head droop, keep your arms at the level of your eyes and right foot back and left foot to the side and turn, turn in waltz time. Keep an eye on your feet, otherwise you'll be stepping on each other." The children danced and danced, they whirled in circles. The world was whirling with them.

Rudolf Freudenfeld, the musical director of the Theresienstadt production of Brundibar "I was so happy," Ela says, as if this all happened only yesterday. "I ran to my mother, and my mother was an excellent dancer. And I said, 'Mama, now you can dance the waltz with me, the English waltz.' And she looked at me in astonishment and asked, 'Where did you learn that?' And I began to sing, and she threw her shoes to one side and said, 'Let's dance, Elinka!' She loved dancing with me."

As Marketa Stein danced across the room in three-quarter time with her daughter and gazed into Ela's radiant eyes, reality was forgotten for a moment or two, and the room was filled with the conviction that everything would soon be all right again. How very much Marketa wished for a better life for her daughter! That Ela is taking part in a children's opera-even playing the pretty role of the cat, that she had learned to dance-all this in the ghetto! Weren't these good omens?

Perhaps the prophecy of her brother, Dr. Otto Altenstein, with whom she shared the little room, would soon come true. "When the plums are ripe," he would say, "we'll be going back home."

Quite possibly Dr. Altenstein patted his niece on the head that day as he said those words. And even though the plum trees would soon be dropping their fruit for the second time since they arrived, he clung resolutely to this idea. One day he and his sister and her daughters Ela and Ilona would return to Prague and begin a new life there. And the children would gradually get over all they had experienced in their younger years.

An original poster for the Theresienstadt production of Brundibar Brundibar Late in the afternoon of September 23, 1943, throngs of people, young and old, streamed into the attic room of the Magdeburg Barracks. The hundred or so chairs were not nearly enough for an audience of at least three times that number. The doors were thrown open and there were more people crowding outside. They all wanted to be part of the extraordinary event that the children had been talking about for weeks: the premiere of Brundibar Brundibar, an opera performed by children, for children.

In a little side room opening onto the improvised stage, the young actors, tense with stage fright, prepare to make their entrances. They go over their lines again and again, encouraging one another and humming their songs. With some dabs of makeup they are transformed into their characters. Ela, all in black in her sister's ski pants and her mother's black sweater, is electrified when, with a few strokes of chalk, Frantiek Zelenka, the stage designer and artistic director of the play, gives her face its feline expression. Then he quickly smears bootblack over her naked feet, and the metamorphosis is complete. She feels as if she is on a "real big stage."

Excitement is running high, both backstage and out in front. The musicians take their places. The composer, Hans Krasa, is present, as is the ch.o.r.eographer, Kamilla Rosenbaum. Batik takes a peek at the audience and spots his father, Ota Freudenfeld, sitting in a place of honor. It was on Ota's fiftieth birthday, in July 1941, that Rafael Schachter mentioned Brundibar Brundibar for the first time, and on that very evening the decision was made to rehea.r.s.e the opera with the children of the Boys' Orphanage in Prague. Hans Krasa followed the rehearsals of his opera with great interest. But he never got to attend the premiere. On August 10, 1942, a few days before the opera was performed-clandestinely, in the dining hall of the orphanage-he was on a transport to Theresienstadt. for the first time, and on that very evening the decision was made to rehea.r.s.e the opera with the children of the Boys' Orphanage in Prague. Hans Krasa followed the rehearsals of his opera with great interest. But he never got to attend the premiere. On August 10, 1942, a few days before the opera was performed-clandestinely, in the dining hall of the orphanage-he was on a transport to Theresienstadt.

Now, a year later, nearly all of them were together again-the young actors from that first performance and many of the friends who had met in the orphanage on Belgicka 25. And within a very short time, Brundibar Brundibar, Krasa's children's opera, was displaying its remarkable powers.

Forty children have gathered behind the plank wall. A few lamps cast a dim light. Then the first few notes sound, by genuine masters of chamber music: Karel Frohlich, Romouald Sussmann, the Kohn brothers, Fritzek Weiss, and Gideon Klein.

The children keep repeating their opening lines in their minds. Their eyes move back and forth, from the audience to Batik, who greets their glances with a smile. They do not even notice how hot it is in the room. All they can feel is the tension, the expectation in the air. Then Batik steps before the orchestra and raises his baton.

A scene from the children's opera Brundibar, Brundibar, sketched by Ruth Gutmann sketched by Ruth Gutmann The spirited opening measures have begun, and now the children are singing: "Tohle je mal Pepiek, zemrl mu davno tatiek za ruku vede Aninku, maji nemocnou maminku. ..." "Tohle je mal Pepiek, zemrl mu davno tatiek za ruku vede Aninku, maji nemocnou maminku. ..." ("That is little Pepiek. His father is dead. He's holding Aninka's hand. Their mother is sick. ...") Aninka and Pepiek come onstage, and Pit'a Muhlstein sings: ("That is little Pepiek. His father is dead. He's holding Aninka's hand. Their mother is sick. ...") Aninka and Pepiek come onstage, and Pit'a Muhlstein sings: "Ja se jmenuju Pepiek, davna mu zemel tatiek. ..." "Ja se jmenuju Pepiek, davna mu zemel tatiek. ..." ("My name is Pepiek. My father died a long time ago. ...") ("My name is Pepiek. My father died a long time ago. ...") "Actually we conceived of the opera as a kind of Brechtian didactic play," the librettist Adolf Hoffmeister, who managed to escape to England, would explain after the war. "The plot is very simple. The mother is ill, her two children, Pepiek and Aninka, go to fetch milk, but they have no money. They notice that pa.s.sersby are giving money to the organ-grinder. So they stand at a street corner and begin to sing. But their voices are too weak. Then the animals of the town come and advise them to form a children's choir to make their voices stronger. And the animals invite schoolchildren to join in, which they do, and their voices get strong enough to defeat the organ-grinder. The children's solidarity allowed them to triumph over the organ-grinder Brundibar because they were undaunted by the task."1 "The most difficult problem in planning this children's opera was, needless to say, the libretto," Hans Krasa revealed in a brief retrospect in his 1943 report, written just a few days before the last children from the orphanage arrived in Theresienstadt on July 7, 1943. "The usual dramatic, human conflicts-erotic, political, and such-could not be used, of course. Neither the librettist nor I was partial to fairy tales. But all the same the author managed to create a text that has a childlike (but not childish) gaiety about it and that dramatizes a real-life occurrence, in which the effectiveness of collective strength in the struggle against evil is compellingly presented. In the case of this children's opera it is a singing contest that pits all the children against the organ-grinder.

"The special charm for me as a composer lay in writing music that is absolutely singable for children, but that sounds modern to audience members of all ages and does not resort to the cliches of children's songs. Despite the fact that music for children should not have a range greater than the fifth, I did not want to do violence to my natural temperament as a composer."2 Hans Krasa and Adolf Hoffmeister had created the opera in 1938, inspired by an announcement in Rythmus Rythmus, a monthly magazine for contemporary music. "The a.s.sociation for Musical Education is announcing a compet.i.tion and offering 5,000 crowns for a children's opera," the text read. "The rules are that the opera run no longer than sixty minutes and be written in such a way that it can be performed entirely by children. Any piece that was written or performed before this compet.i.tion will be ineligible. The plays must be offered anonymously, in the form of piano music. The deadline is September 16, 1938. Address: SHU, Prague IV, Toskan Palace, where entrants can receive additional information."

Hans Krasa (left) (left) and Adolf Hoffmeister in 1938 and Adolf Hoffmeister in 1938 It was not the first time that these two friends had partic.i.p.ated in a joint effort. Hans Krasa had written the music for a theater piece t.i.tled Mladi ve he (Youth at Play) Mladi ve he (Youth at Play), Adolf Hoffmeister's comedy produced in 1936 by the avant-garde theater director E. F. Burian. Krasa's Song for Anna Song for Anna became a popular hit when it appeared in a German version by Friedrich Torberg under the t.i.tle became a popular hit when it appeared in a German version by Friedrich Torberg under the t.i.tle Anna Says No Anna Says No.

Hoffmeister and Krasa seized the opportunity offered by the compet.i.tion and set to work. The danger from Germany was advancing relentlessly and the future appeared increasingly gloomy. What would become of the next generation?

Although their motivation for this final joint artistic effort was the competion, their underlying desire was to resist the political turmoil with the only weapon they had-art. Above all, they wanted to arm the children with the courage to face a perilous future. They could never have imagined what the fate of this generation of Jewish children- indeed, of their own families-would be, or the circ.u.mstances that would land one of these two friends in Theresienstadt.

On their small improvised stage, the children perform with growing ease. Excitement and fear yield to an awareness of being part of something important. The actors merge with the opera's plot, with their roles, with the songs and music. Reality is forgotten. The play is reality. Reality is life. They are performing for their lives. They sing, play, dance, spin in three-quarter time; ultimately they defeat and chase away the organ-grinder Brundibar. "Brundibar poraen" "Brundibar poraen" ("We have defeated Brundibar") resounds triumphantly in every throat. They sing it one more time, and the voices of the audience blend with the voices onstage. Everyone is singing now, singing at the top of their lungs this hymn of victory over the evil Brundibar. Both the performers and the audience are caught up in the enthusiasm of a momentary certainty from which no one wants to awaken: ("We have defeated Brundibar") resounds triumphantly in every throat. They sing it one more time, and the voices of the audience blend with the voices onstage. Everyone is singing now, singing at the top of their lungs this hymn of victory over the evil Brundibar. Both the performers and the audience are caught up in the enthusiasm of a momentary certainty from which no one wants to awaken: "Brundibar poraen." "Brundibar poraen."

"The applause was incredible," recalls Ela, describing the elated response to the performance. "Whenever we sang the finale at the end, 'Brundibar poraen,' 'Brundibar poraen,' there was a storm of applause, and the audience wanted to hear the song again and again, until they almost had to throw us all out. We made the most of this moment of freedom." Whenever Ela remembers this moment, it is as if the scene is coming back to life. "And there was something else, too," she adds. "We didn't have to wear the yellow stars. Even in Theresienstadt we always had to wear the yellow star-but not when we were performing there was a storm of applause, and the audience wanted to hear the song again and again, until they almost had to throw us all out. We made the most of this moment of freedom." Whenever Ela remembers this moment, it is as if the scene is coming back to life. "And there was something else, too," she adds. "We didn't have to wear the yellow stars. Even in Theresienstadt we always had to wear the yellow star-but not when we were performing Brundibar Brundibar. It was the only exception. For those moments we were not branded with the yellow star, which meant that for this brief precious time, we were free."

From then on Brundibar Brundibar was performed once a week. Every performance was a sellout. Tickets, which were given out by the Freizeit-gestaltung (recreation office), disappeared in a flash. This little piece mesmerized both audience and performers. "It was a light in the darkness for the children, and even for the adults," said Leopold Lowy, who had also seen the production at the orphanage in Prague. was performed once a week. Every performance was a sellout. Tickets, which were given out by the Freizeit-gestaltung (recreation office), disappeared in a flash. This little piece mesmerized both audience and performers. "It was a light in the darkness for the children, and even for the adults," said Leopold Lowy, who had also seen the production at the orphanage in Prague.

Suddenly there were young stars in Theresienstadt. "There goes Aninka," the children called out when they saw Greta Hofmeister. "h.e.l.lo, Pepiek," they said when they ran into Pit'a Muhlstein. Zdenk Ohrenstein now answered to the name of Dog. Ela was Cat or Kitty, and Maria Muhlstein was Sparrow. And little Stephan Sommer, the youngest member of the ensemble, who shared the role of the sparrow with Maria Muhlstein and hopped about the stage so charmingly, often heard people say, "Here he is, our sweet little sparrow."

But most popular of all was Brundibar himself, the organ-grinder, played by Honza Treichlinger. Rudolf Freudenfeld composed an unforgettable memorial to him: "He truly joined the ranks of the famous. He was renowned and revered. Wherever he went, the cry went up, 'Brundibar, Brundibar.' Honza instinctively portrayed the figure of Brundibar with such humanity that, although he played the role of the villain, he was not just the children's favorite, but the audience's as well. He learned to wiggle his pasted-on mustache, wiggle it so brilliantly and at just the perfect moment that all tension in the audience vanished and we could actually hear the children heave a sigh of relief. From the moment he first created the character he played every performance without a stand-in. No one could have replaced him."3 Everyone was thrilled by Honza Treichlinger. "We loved him," the girls of Room 28 say, "although he was playing Brundibar, the villain and the enemy of us children. But he did it so comically and with such wit-we loved Honza in that role. He was one of a kind-simply wonderful."

Greta Klingsberg, nee Hofmeister, lived in Room 25 of Girls' Home L 410. She played the role of Aninka. "It was incredibly beautiful," she says of the production. "It was out of this world. The opera's message was, of course, very important to us: Those who love justice and stand by us can play with us. Most important of all: Good will triumph because we stick together."

Handa Pollak sang in the choir and on one occasion played the role of the dog. "The opera's strength was in the idea of solidarity, of holding together," she says. "We saw Brundibar as. .h.i.tler, and the baker who does not want to give bread to the children and the milkman who does not want to give them milk as the SS. With every performance we triumphed over them. It was something like our small underground war against Hitler and the n.a.z.is."

Eva Herrmann lived in Room 24 of Girls' Home L 414. She sang in the children's choir. "We just belted the finale out," she recalls. "At that moment, we felt free. Somehow we sensed that this was not just a play. Suddenly we were able to identify with an idea that embraced all our hopes: that good would triumph over evil."

Jii Kotou lived in Room 1 of Boys' Home L 417. "Most of the children who acted in Brundibar Brundibar did not survive. So it must be said that for them, did not survive. So it must be said that for them, Brundibar Brundibar was the last source of great joy in their lives." was the last source of great joy in their lives."

Eva Landa tried to get tickets for as many performances of Brundibar Brundibar as she possibly could. Although she was still sorry that she had not been chosen to play one of the schoolchildren, and although she envied her close friends-especially Ela, Maria, Flaka, and Handa-because they were part of the ensemble, she was still happy just to sit in the audience in the Magdeburg Barracks alongside one of her girlfriends or her boyfriend, Harry. as she possibly could. Although she was still sorry that she had not been chosen to play one of the schoolchildren, and although she envied her close friends-especially Ela, Maria, Flaka, and Handa-because they were part of the ensemble, she was still happy just to sit in the audience in the Magdeburg Barracks alongside one of her girlfriends or her boyfriend, Harry.

By now she knew every scene and every song, as well as many of the actors and musicians. The moment the first measures of the opening song rang out, the boundaries between her and the brother and sister on the stage fell away, and Eva lost herself in the performance as if in a wonderful, recurring dream. She eagerly awaited the lullaby, which sounded as if it was being sung by angels. "Maminka koliba, detatko houpy, hou, mysli si co bude, a dti vyrostou." "Maminka koliba, detatko houpy, hou, mysli si co bude, a dti vyrostou." ("Mama rocks the cradle and thinks, my, my, what will become of the children when they are grown?") It always grew very quiet in the audience, everyone holding their breath in expectation. ("Mama rocks the cradle and thinks, my, my, what will become of the children when they are grown?") It always grew very quiet in the audience, everyone holding their breath in expectation. "Kad kos ze hnizda jedenkrat vyleta." "Kad kos ze hnizda jedenkrat vyleta." ("Every bird will one day fly from the nest. Must leave, not knowing why, and fly out into the world.") ("Every bird will one day fly from the nest. Must leave, not knowing why, and fly out into the world.") "For me it's one of the most beautiful songs," Eva says today. "It's about saying goodbye to childhood-and that had a very deep meaning for us back then. We were twelve, thirteen years old, and our childhood was coming to an end. We were facing the adult world, the world of bakers, ice-cream vendors, policemen, and Brundibars. And the better world, the world of the children, defeated the adults and Brundibar, who underestimated us. During the time that we were caught up in the opera, we firmly believed in our victory."

Why should what was happening in the real world be any different from what was happening onstage, where a dramatic example of the united strength of children and animals-a dog, a cat, and a sparrow- was played out before their very eyes? Why shouldn't everything turn out all right? "Panta rhei" "Panta rhei" ("Everything flows"), Eva Weiss had written on one of the motto cards she hung on the wall of Room 28, and now the choir of schoolchildren was singing the lullaby's refrain: ("Everything flows"), Eva Weiss had written on one of the motto cards she hung on the wall of Room 28, and now the choir of schoolchildren was singing the lullaby's refrain: "Roste strom, tee proud, plyne cas mraky jdou." "Roste strom, tee proud, plyne cas mraky jdou." ("The tree grows, the river flows, time flows, clouds pa.s.s. Year after year, step by step.") ("The tree grows, the river flows, time flows, clouds pa.s.s. Year after year, step by step.") On the stage, the visitors to the market are tossing coin after coin into Pepiek's cap. He happily shows them to his sister, Aninka. Then suddenly Brundibar appears, s.n.a.t.c.hes the cap from the boy's hand, and runs away-along with all the money! "Children, children, catch the thief!" Pepiek cries, and the entire chorus of schoolchildren chases after Brundibar.

The hunt begins. Because Brundibar represents the evil that has brought misery into the lives of the children, because they see him as. .h.i.tler, as his n.a.z.is, and as all the hangers-on and supporters of his dictatorial regime, they pursue him with furious determination. The wellspring of sudden energy that fuels their common cause against Brundibar seems inexhaustible. It is an energy that flows from all sides-from the audience, from the musicians in the orchestra, from the very streets and barracks of Theresienstadt, and, of course, from the hearts of the performing children. All these energies are united to strike a single blow against the evil organ-grinder. The children finally catch up with Brundibar, who flings the cap away and flees. "Brundibar poraen!" "Brundibar poraen!" ("We have defeated Brundibar!") cry one and all. He is defeated by the children and their friends-the dog, the cat, and the sparrow. Good has triumphed over evil. ("We have defeated Brundibar!") cry one and all. He is defeated by the children and their friends-the dog, the cat, and the sparrow. Good has triumphed over evil.

It was like a fairy tale, yet for the moment this was reality. It was a vision of the future transported to the stage, borne up by the principle of hope and belief in the victory over Hitler. "When at the end we all sang 'Brundibar poraen,' 'Brundibar poraen,' we firmly believed in ourselves and in our victory," Eva says. "At that moment we looked optimistically into the future." we firmly believed in ourselves and in our victory," Eva says. "At that moment we looked optimistically into the future."

Tuesday, September 28, 1943Ela is going with Honza (from Home 9, he used to go with Lenka). Every evening she tells me about their rendezvous. My last thoughts here in Theresienstadt are about boys. At home they had been my first thoughts-for the simple reason that after 1941 I was no longer able to attend school and I had little opportunity to find a girlfriend. And so I made friends with boys. I had a lot of free time and was bored. Here, things are different. Every noon and every evening I go visit Papa for a while, and I have to spend the rest of my time in the Home, even when there are no cla.s.ses. When we have a free day I use the time for drawing. When would I go out with boys?Soon it will be Rosh Hashanah. We're going to have a celebration.

Rosh Hashanah, the two-day observance of the Jewish New Year, was approaching, and the counselors made every effort to create an atmosphere of contemplation and introspection appropriate to the holiday. According to Jewish tradition, it is time when the books containing the deeds of all humanity are opened and the fate of each person is determined for the coming year. This is why people place special emphasis on the wishes and dreams they hope will be fulfilled. "May you be inscribed for a good year," or simply "Shanah tovah" "Shanah tovah" ("A good year"), was the greeting on everyone's lips. ("A good year"), was the greeting on everyone's lips.

Of course, it was impossible to celebrate Rosh Hashanah in Theresienstadt in the traditional fashion. There were neither apples nor honey to dip them in. There was no fish, whose head meat is customarily eaten (the literal translation of rosh of rosh is "head"), because just as we are directed by our heads, we pray that the good fate set down for us on Rosh Hashanah will direct our actions for the entire year. And there was no "new fruit" over which to say the traditional blessing of thankfulness for having been kept alive and healthy so that we can celebrate the holiday. is "head"), because just as we are directed by our heads, we pray that the good fate set down for us on Rosh Hashanah will direct our actions for the entire year. And there was no "new fruit" over which to say the traditional blessing of thankfulness for having been kept alive and healthy so that we can celebrate the holiday.

Yet most of the girls did not miss these rituals. Until now they had never known them. Like Helga, Ela, and Handa, they came from a.s.similated families. It was not unusual for their homes to be decorated with Christmas trees in December. Handa recalls just such a moment-it was right after their flight from Olbramovice. She was living with her aunt in Prague. Christmas Eve was drawing ever closer, and there was still no Christmas tree in the house. Finally she grew very nervous and asked her aunt about it. "My aunt pointed to the Hanukkah candles and said, 'That is our Christmas tree.' And I was very disappointed. I didn't even know that there was such a holiday."

In 1943 Professor Israel Kestenberg wrote about the goals of the Youth Welfare Office at Theresienstadt, pointing out that it was everyone's duty to familiarize himself or herself with Jewish traditions and customs. "This is a prerequisite for any connection with a Jewish community. To celebrate the Sabbath and the High Holy Days, to behave in synagogue in traditional fashion, is a basic requirement for Jewish communal life. It is especially important to learn about our people's past. Only in this way can our young people learn to value our nation, which has always been prepared to sacrifice like no other."4 Flaka and Lenka did their part in helping to prepare for the feast in Room 28. They wrote a comedy about two old maids t.i.tled Amalka and Posinka Amalka and Posinka and presented it as a prelude to Rosh Hashanah. The performance was a great success. They subsequently presented and presented it as a prelude to Rosh Hashanah. The performance was a great success. They subsequently presented Amalka and Posinka Amalka and Posinka with new variations and sequels, sometimes in other rooms of the Girls' Home. with new variations and sequels, sometimes in other rooms of the Girls' Home.

AMALKA AND POSINKA.

Two old maids are sitting on a bench fast asleep. They are dressed in very funny clothes. One has a stocking on her head.Posinka (suddenly wakes up): Amalka!Amalka: What is it, Posinka?Posinka: It will soon be Rosh Hashanah. Shouldn't we buy something good to eat?Amalka: A goose?Posinka: That's too expensive!Amalka: A pig?Posinka: That's not kosher!Amalka and Posinka together: Let's buy a turkey!Amalka and Posinka go off to buy a turkey and soon return with one. They tug it in by the wings and pluck all its feathers. Suddenly the turkey comes to life-but alas, without feathers! And since it's so cold, the turkey starts to shiver. So Amalka and Posinka decide to knit it a sweater. They knit and knit, and keep trying the sweater on the turkey, and finally pull it down over it.All of a sudden, someone comes bounding in and calls out:"All Jews have to hand over their warm winter clothes!"

(There was, as Eva Landa recalls, always applause and laughter at this point.) Amalka and Posinka take the turkey with them to the Council of Elders and ask for permission to let the turkey keep its warm sweater. They negotiate with the chief elder. Finally Amalka says to him: "You have hair on your body. But our turkey doesn't have a single feather!" And the chief elder takes pity on the turkey and allows the two women to keep the sweater.Very happy now, Amalka and Posinka return home, pulling the turkey by the wings and shouting: Long live Poppi-our turkey!In another version, Amalka has false teeth that she keeps in a gla.s.s of water overnight. One night she wakes up thirsty and drinks the water, and her false teeth with it. This gives her a terrible tummy ache, and she goes to the doctor (played by Zajiek), who prescribes a laxative for her and says, "Take Darmol now; you'll soon feel-wow!" Amalka takes the medicine and suddenly her false teeth drop into her chamber pot. Still half asleep, she picks them out, puts them in her mouth, and scrunches her face into a grimace.At this point everyone laughed again, as did Amalka, who shook so hard that her false teeth fell out again.Helga's diary continues:Thursday, September 30, 1943Yesterday evening was so beautiful! I'll never forget it as long as I live. We had the most beautifully decorated room. Since we don't have a chandelier, we wove a wreath of green leaves, red berries, and colored ribbons around the lamp. Our flag, which we hung on the closet, was decorated with wildflowers, and the large table was covered with a tablecloth, and was then set with wonderfully prepared food. We had three sandwiches, each one different, and after that a pudding with a delightful topping. There were candles in the middle of the table. We all wore white blouses and dark blue skirts. First we sang, then Tella spoke about the past year, about all the good things we experienced, and the sad things, too. But the happy moments out-weighed the sad, and as a way of promising that we will never forget the good things or our ideals, we sang our hymn. Frau Muhlstein lit the candles and said the brachah. brachah. And then we had our blow-out banquet And then we had our blow-out banquet.I thought: I really should hug Tella. She was so beautiful and winning, and far more radiant than usual. But it wasn't that I was surprised by Tella-she was simply happy to see what she had made of us.On today of all days, we had to learn that Walter Deutsch had escaped from Theresienstadt two weeks earlier, only to be caught and sent to a concentration camp. What was that crazy boy thinking? It's not so awful here. His parents are in Poland, and he's twenty-three. But even worse is that we learned from a postcard sent by Frau Korschil that Walter Pollak and his wife died on January 27, 1943. Our whole family figures it happened like this: Walter left Theresienstadt along with Uncle Karl on January 26, 1943. On the 27th they were still en route, or might just have arrived at their destination. It definitely wasn't suicide. That's just not like them. So we think that maybe they were too old to do hard labor and so were murdered. We have no news from Uncle Karl, and we're afraid he has met the same fate as the Pollaks.

The escapee Walter Deutsch was a distant relative of Helga's, the son of Gustav Deutsch from Prostejov, who was her father's cousin. Why had he risked fleeing? What was happening to him now in the concentration camp? And why had Walter Pollak and his wife died under such mysterious circ.u.mstances as soon as they had left Theresienstadt?

Hardly a day pa.s.sed that was not darkened by such questions, by upsetting news and events. As always, the counselors tried to shield their wards from such daily horrors. But too much was happening, and they had reached the limits of their ability to cope with it all; they were often at their wit's end.

This atmosphere also affected relations among the counselors. Especially in the Girls' Home, the antagonism between Communist and Zionist counselors became heated. Moreover, the building itself was in a desolate state. The plaster was peeling from the walls and ceiling. The beds were falling apart, the toilets were often clogged, and the doors and windows no longer closed properly.

These poor conditions had to be tackled, and the leadership of the Girls' Home reinforced. Gonda Redlich, the head of the Youth Welfare Office, decided that an energetic and prudent man should share the leadership role with Rosa Englander. He gave the position to w.i.l.l.y Groag and entrusted him with the task of "bringing a breath of fresh air to the Girls' Home."

w.i.l.l.y Groag, a handsome young man, was born in Olomouc on August 7, 1914, to a.s.similated Jews who were pa.s.sionate monarchists, a sentiment that couldn't help but creep onto their son's birth certificate: Wilhelm Franz Mordechai Groag. "Wilhelm, in honor of Kaiser Wilhelm," he liked to emphasize, "Franz, in honor of Kaiser Franz Josef, and, just so that something of the Jewish tradition remained, Mordechai, in honor of my grandfather Markus Mordechai Groag."

w.i.l.l.y Groag had a doctorate in chemistry, and ever since 1938, when Gonda Redlich had recommended he read Heinrich Graetz's eleven-volume History of the Jews from the Earliest Period to the Present History of the Jews from the Earliest Period to the Present, he had been a committed Zionist and educator for Hachsharah. From 1939 to 1942 he had been the head of the Prague branch of Maccabi Hatza'ir, a Zionist youth organization, and had taught chemistry, physics, mathematics, and drawing at the Youth Aliyah School, the Jewish middle school. Many of the children already knew this pleasant blue-eyed young man from their days in Prague.

Once appointed to his new position in the Girls' Home, w.i.l.l.y Groag lost no time in ordering remedial measures. Craftsmen were organized and the worst damages repaired. The young woman who was in charge of bread rations in the Provisions Office was relieved of her post on grounds of having "provided for her own stomach," and was replaced by another woman. Several counselors, and even several children, changed Homes.

But otherwise everything remained as it had been. Frau Roubiek, who was in charge of the registry lists, continued on in her office in L 410, right next to the main entrance, keeping a meticulous record in a large thick book of the daily count of residents of the Girls' Home. In the infirmary, pediatricians Dr. Stern and Dr. Fischer worked alongside social worker Margit Muhlstein and nurses Eliska Klein and Ilse Landa to take care of the sick children. And Frau Salus, who was in charge of toilets, was still sitting outside the washroom, her basin of Lysol and a fine-tooth comb always handy, keeping a constant watchful eye on the girls' hair in order to make sure that she didn't miss a single louse. She also tried her hand at writing poetry.

"That's how it is here," Helga wrote in her diary on October 2, 1943, "a poem for a piece of bread. One of the women in charge of the toilets writes poetry while sitting just outside the door. I asked her if she wouldn't like to write one for me. She did so, but the next day she demanded I pay her for it with a slice of bread."

Such dealings were not appropriate for the Home, and presumably w.i.l.l.y Groag knew nothing about them. Had he been aware of what was going on, he would have intervened. w.i.l.l.y Groag and Rosa Englander ran a tight but friendly ship. One of w.i.l.l.y's easier tasks was making the evening rounds of the Home, casting a glance into each room to make sure no one was missing. There was trouble in store for anyone who was not there. Another escapee like Walter Deutsch would have been a catastrophe. To be sure, there was little danger of that in the Girls' Home, but there were plenty of prohibitions, restrictions, and regulations that had to be observed, and if they were not, the result could be severe punishment, either by the Ghetto Court or, worse, by the SS itself.

And so the children had to pay close attention to both daily orders and the General Order of the Jewish Self-Administration, including the rules for behavior on the street. They also had to be strictly reminded that: blackout regulations and times must be observed; open windows must be hooked and closed during strong winds; it is forbidden to walk on the ramparts or on the gra.s.s; any unauthorized departure from the ghetto will be regarded as an attempt to escape, in which case the police are empowered to make use of their weapons; children, whether in groups or marching in ranks, are to use the street pavement and not the sidewalk; it is forbidden to enter streets, squares, or parks that are barricaded, or to jaywalk; streets may be crossed only at corners or intersections; it is strictly forbidden to make loud noise; corridors, courtyards, and streets are to be kept absolutely tidy, and no paper or garbage is to be tossed aside or left lying around; likewise any spitting on the street, in courtyards, or in corridors is strictly forbidden; everyone must be inside the Home at designated times and must observe nighttime quiet hours.

Friday, October 8, 1943I would like to aim for greater self-control. I am going to fast all day tomorrow.Sunday, October 10, 1943I held out until a quarter to six. There was no unpleasant sensation in my stomach, no hunger, just a bad headache in the evening. Then I ate so much it made me sick. I wanted to freshen up, so I went for a bath in the Hohenelbe Barracks. Ela came along; we went together using one permission card.-Every young person in Theresienstadt had to write an essay. It was a compet.i.tion.Friday, October 15, 1943Lea weighs 24 lbs 8 oz. Mimi is ill and is in the hospital at Hohenelbe Barracks. In the same room is a woman who tried to escape from Theresienstadt. She was caught and thrown into prison. While she was there she found several two-inch nails, smeared them with margarine, and swallowed a few. She was trying to commit suicide. They operated on her stomach. Papa says she's not in her right mind. He could tell from her eyes. How strange that I don't see it.Then there's a woman who was put on a transport even though she was ill. She swallowed some kind of powder, but not enough to kill her. They pumped out her stomach. Outside the door is an O.D. man [abbreviation for Ordnungsdienst- Ordnungsdienst-police duty], and whenever one of the two women goes to the toilet, he accompanies them and waits till they come out in order to escort them back to their ward. They are prisoners from the Dresden Barracks prison and are in the hospital only for as long as they are ill.Sunday, October 24, 1943Yesterday some of the girls begged the counselors to ask us a series of questions. I answered eight out of ten, so eighty percent. Eva Stern and I have agreed to test each other once a month on our general knowledge.Wednesday, October 27, 1943Yesterday evening Rita criticized us in a roundabout way: "The person I have in mind is an intelligent girl who longs to learn things, who was once very spoiled, but has put that behind her, except that elements of her spoiled nature still appear from time to time. You can tell that she's an only child, because she is sometimes very moody." And then we had to guess who it was. It was me.-She told Fika that she has a very poetic soul.Fika and I seem to spend more time thinking than any of the other girls in our room. I was steeped in thought well into the night. At about 11 o'clock I took out some paper and a pencil, and in the dark I wrote this sentence: Thinking and reflecting make you forget your poverty, and the world seems beautiful, mysterious, and unfathomable.Thursday, October 28, 1943Yesterday evening I spoke with Erica. We might be able to get along quite well. She gave me a little heart she had cut out. We have almost the same view of things. Erika doesn't have a close girlfriend, and neither do I. We both have Rita as a friend. My conscience has been troubling me of late, and I feel as if I'm doing everything wrong. But that's been the case only since I've begun to think a lot about everything. And I've been unsure of myself ever since. But now Rita has explained to me that only stupid people are sure of themselves and their behavior. The smarter people are, the more they doubt. their behavior. The smarter people are, the more they doubt. THINKING IS THE FINEST THING IN THE WORLD THINKING IS THE FINEST THING IN THE WORLD.Professor Brumlikova is a genius when it comes to lecturing. Although I was born after the First World War, I've found that her accounts bring this history to life for me. Today is the twenty-fifth anniversary of Czechoslovakia's independence from the Hapsburgs. And let's hope that there will soon be another "October 28th," be it in January or in May. And that it will come just as suddenly and unexpectedly as it did back then. When that day comes, we will all hug and rejoice. Benes and Masaryk will return, and Czechoslovakia will be a free country once again. Throughout the Czech lands, people will be singing "Where Is My Home?"Where is my home? Where is my home?

Waters murmur across the meads Pinewoods rustle 'pon the cliff-rocks, Bloom of spring shines in the orchard, Paradise on Earth you see!

And that is the beautiful land, The Czech land, my home!

The Czech land, my home!Yesterday evening I asked Papa whether he would be angry with me if I had myself baptized as an adult. I told him that I feel no real connection with the Jews, their history, and their sufferings. I don't feel I'm bound to them. Papa's answer was: "When you're an adult you can do whatever you want, and I won't forbid you to do anything, and certainly not try to change your mind." I'll never forget those words for as long as I live! I have a real Papa. If everyone had a father like him, the world would be a very different place.Before I began to contemplate matters of this kind, I was restless and consumed with worry about Mama. But since I've begun to think so much, I've found an inner contentment. This peculiar feeling can't really be called tranquillity, since I'm forever coming up with something new to brood about-especially things that concern the world as a whole: people, races, and nations. In a word: everything.And another thing-d.a.m.n, I could fill a whole notebook today! At the moment I don't feel anything for our Home, just for Rita and Erika and for Fika. But I'm so caught up in my own thoughts that I don't know what's ha