Free What World is Left by Monique Polak

the commandant peeing in his pants would make me cry with laughter. But this is no ordinary day.
    An hour later, Eichmann and his henchmen emerge from Rahm’s headquarters. Eichmann is upset. There is mud on the bottom of his coat. One of the henchmen goes to fetch some soapy water; then he kneels down on the steps to wipe the coat clean. Once that is done, Eichmann claps his hands and steps back inside the limousine. People who see the car drive off say Eichmann, who sits in the backseat, keeps his eyes on the road in front of him. “He’d already forgotten about the lot of us,” they say.
    â€œForgotten?” someone cries out. “You can’t forget people you never noticed in the first place. To the Nazis, we’re less than nothing.”
    Within a quarter of an hour, the members of the Council of Elders are summoned to Rahm’s headquarters. Their faces are ashen, their shoulders stooped as they enter the building. They know they have a grim task ahead: to supply the names of a thousand inmates who will leave on the next transport. In two days’ time.
    I hate the members of the Council of Elders. When I pass one of them on the street, I look away. “They’re almost as bad as the Nazis,” I tell Father. “All they care about is keeping their own names off the transport lists.”
    Father disagrees. He argues that if it weren’t for the council, the Nazis might liquidate Theresienstadt. “We need to have compassion for the council members,” he says. “Imagine having to do what’s been asked of them.”
    Hours pass, and people keep careful watch over Rahm’s headquarters. But there is no sign of the council. That confirms everyone’s worst suspicion: Work on the latest list has already begun.
    For the Nazis, the transports are a way to clean up Theresienstadt, no different from Mother’s dusting. Theresienstadt is overcrowded, throbbing with Jews. With every new trainload that arrives at Buhosovice, the fate of the camp becomes clear: There will be more transports.
    And so for the next two days, we hold our breath. We go to work, we line up for soup, but we think of nothing other than Wednesday’s transport. At the end ofthe day, we walk into our barracks or our rooms, scanning our mattresses for the thin strip of paper which means our name is on the list.
    Hannelore and I barely say a word as we walk back from the diet kitchen. We hear terrible weeping coming from one of the men’s barracks. But this time, we don’t try to listen in or watch. No, we know exactly what this weeping means.
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, squeezing Hannelore’s hand when I leave her at the women’s barracks. When we peer in together, my heart beats double-time. But there is no strip of paper on her mattress or her mother’s. For now they’ve been spared.
    The next morning, the skin around Hannelore’s eyes is pink and puffy.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask, reaching for her hand.
    â€œMy Uncle Fritz...” She can barely get the words out.
    I gasp. “Perhaps there’s still some way...”
    It is sometimes possible to get a name removed from the transport list. This explains why there is already a long line of people shuffling outside Commandant Rahm’s office. Since yesterday afternoon, they’ve been waiting for an audience with the head of the Council of Elders. If a strong enough case can be made, you or whomever you are petitioning for might be spared.Though everyone knows that if a name is dropped from the list, another will have to be added.
    Then there are the horror stories about what has happened to some of the prisoners who petitioned directly to the Nazis. Herr Adler, who was in charge of Father’s studio, was devastated when he learned that the names of three of his artists had been added, at the last moment, to a transport list. Adler rushed to the train and pleaded