Somewhere There Is Still a Sun by Michael Gruenbaum

Author:Michael Gruenbaum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aladdin

July 20, 1943

“AND THEN,” I SAY TO Mother, “then Otto—”

“Otto?” she asks.

“Otto Hirsch,” I say, “I told you already.”

“Oh,” she says, and sits down on one of the benches in front of her barracks. She pats the spot next to her, so I sit down too. I took my dinner over to her tonight, but she insisted we eat out here. Which was a good idea, because even though the heat broke a little this afternoon, the inside of the Dresden Barracks still feels like an oven. “So, this Otto—”

“Right, he has the ball. And he’s really good. I would pay a thousand crowns to be able to dribble like him. Seriously. All game, just like Franta said, we’ve been pushing them to the sideline. And it’s been working, because—”

“But you were losing two to one. How is that working?”

“Because,” I say, and roll my eyes, “because if we weren’t doing that it would have been four to one at least by then. At least.”

“You’re not impressed I remembered the score?” she says, and does this thing where she tickles me behind my ear.

“C’mon, stop it.”

“So then what?”

“Okay, so Otto has the ball”—I hop up off the bench—“and my job is to—”

“To force him to the sideline, yes.”

“Right, but—” And for a moment I see the whole sequence in my head again, how big he is, how fast he was coming, how hard he was biting down on his bottom lip. “I know he really wants to go inside. All game he’s been trying to, but we won’t let him. Not me or Jiri or Leo or anyone. So guess what happens?”

“You . . .” Mother crosses her legs. “You . . . I don’t know, Misha, what happened?”

“Okay, so . . .” And I start trying to show her, but it’s hard all by myself. I grab her hand. “Stand up.”

“Misha, please.”

“C’mon.”

“I’m exhausted.” She pulls her hand back. “This heat, and the hours at the workshop. Plus extra time working on the set for that strange opera of yours.”

“Pleeeease,” I say, “it won’t make sense with just me.”

Mother shakes her head a few times, but then gets up. “You have fifteen seconds.”

“Okay, okay. So you’re Otto.”

“I’m Otto?”

“And you’ve got the ball.” But Mother just stands there. “C’mon, dribble at me.”

“But I don’t have a ball.”

“So pretend,” I say, and take a few steps back. Mother comes my way slowly, taking these small, weird steps, which I guess is her idea of dribbling. “Okay, so, if I’ve been pushing you to the sideline all game, and suddenly I let you go the other way, what do you do. If you’re Otto?”

“I say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gruenbaum, you’re so kind—’ ”

“I’m serious, Mother,” I say, and for a second something in my throat gets stuck swallowing the words “Mr. Gruenbaum.” But there’s no time for that. “What do you do?”

“I go inside, right?”

“Exactly,” I say, and come up close to her and turn a bit so that I’m covering her left side. “So, go.

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