The Librarian of Auschwitz(46)
He walks out of the hut and sadly gazes at the landscape of mud, huts, and towers. Under the electric lights he can make out two figures standing face-to-face on either side of the fence—Alice Munk and the registrar from the quarantine camp. It must be close to freezing point outside, but they aren’t cold; or if they are, they’re sharing it, so it’s more bearable.
Maybe that’s what love is—sharing the cold.
Block 31 seems small and crowded when all the children are there, but huge and soulless when they leave.
In an effort to warm himself, he lies down on the floor of the hut, elbows pinned to his body, and starts punishing his abdominal muscles by doing scissor-kicks with his legs up in the air. Love has been a constant source of problems for Fredy since he was an adolescent. Given how disciplined he has been in everything else, he feels a deep frustration at his inability to overcome his deepest instincts.
One, two, three, four, five …
On JPD excursions, he liked to snuggle up inside his sleeping bag with the other boys, who were always happy to clown around and accepted him. After his father died, he felt so protected and comfortable with them.… There was nothing like that feeling of companionship. A soccer team wasn’t just a soccer team; it was family.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …
The pleasure he felt hanging out with the boys didn’t disappear as he grew older. He felt much more removed from the girls; there wasn’t that sense of camaraderie he had with the boys. Girls intimidated him. They kept the boys at a distance and ridiculed them. He felt at ease only with his teammates and the boys who joined him on hikes and at games. He carried that feeling into adulthood. Then he left Aachen for Düsseldorf.
There comes a point when your body decides for you. Clandestine encounters started. Some took place in public bathrooms with their weak lighting, permanently wet floors, and rusty stains in the washbasins. But now and again, there was a tender glance, a slightly less mechanical caress, a moment of fulfillment, impossible to resist. Love was like walking on a carpet of shattered glass.
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty …
Over the years he’s tried to keep busy with his tournaments and training, organizing endless events so as to keep his mind busy and his body exhausted. One slip, and it could destroy his reputation. Keeping busy has also allowed him to disguise the fact that no matter how popular and in demand he is, he always ends up alone.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine …
That’s why he continues to slice through the air with his scissor-kicks, making his abdominal muscles ache, punishing himself for not being what he’d like to be, or what everyone else would like him to be.
Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five …
A pool of sweat shows his determination, his capacity for sacrifice … his success. He sits up and, feeling more relaxed, allows his memories to fill the night’s emptiness.
And those memories take him back to Terezín.
They deported him to the Terezín ghetto in May 1942, as if he were just one more Czech. He was among the first to arrive. The Nazis also sent machine operators, doctors, members of the Jewish Council, and cultural and sports instructors. They were preparing for the transportation of massive numbers of Jews.
When Fredy reached the town, he found the urban design of a military mind: streets drawn up with a set square and quadrant, geometrical buildings, and rectangular garden beds that would probably produce flowers in the spring. He liked that logical city; it matched his sense of discipline. It even occurred to him that it might be the start of a new, better period for the Jews before their return to Palestine.
The first time he stopped to look at Terezín, a breeze ruffled his straight hair. He smoothed it back into place. He wasn’t prepared to let anything make him lose his composure. He belonged to a race thousands of years old, a chosen people.
His work with youth groups in Prague had been intense, and he wanted to continue his sports activities and Friday gatherings to encourage the Hebrew spirit. It wouldn’t be easy; he’d have to confront the Nazis, as well as the odd member of the Jewish Council who was aware of the stain he tried so zealously to hide and wouldn’t forgive him. Luckily, he could always count on the support of the council chairman, Yakub Edelstein.
He successfully put together athletics teams, classes in boxing and jujitsu, and basketball tournaments. He established a soccer league with several teams, even convincing the German guards to form a team to take on the prisoners.
He remembers glorious moments: the roar of the spectators who packed not only the perimeter of the field but the doors and windows of all the buildings overlooking the inner courtyard where the games were played.
He recalls the moments of frailty, too; there were many of them.
He recalls one game in particular, a soccer match he organized between the SS guards and the Jews, where he was the referee. There was absolutely no space in any of the openings onto the patio. Hundreds of eyes followed that game intently from every possible spot. It was more than a game. Especially for Fredy. He spent weeks preparing the team, studying tactics, preparing them mentally, putting together sets of exercises, asking people to donate milk rations for his players.
There were only minutes left in the game and the forward for the SS team intercepted the ball in the center circle. He started to run in a straight line toward the goal area and caught the midfielders on the prisoners’ team off guard. There was only one defender left to intercept him. The Nazi ran toward him, and just when he was about to confront him, the prisoner discreetly pulled back his leg so that the Nazi could get past him. The SS guard took a point-blank shot and scored the winning goal. Hirsch will never forget the expressions of complete satisfaction on the faces of the Aryans. They’d beaten the Jews—even on the playing field.