The Paradise Ghetto

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  The Paradise Ghetto

  Fergus O’Connell

  In 1944 two young Dutch women, Julia and Suzanne, are deported to the German concentration camp for so-called ‘privileged’ Jews at Theresienstadt. As an antidote to the appalling conditions they begin to write a novel.

  At first their novel is just an escape – an imaginary world into which they can withdraw and find comfort – but as their story unfolds it becomes the way they communicate their feelings to each other and, ultimately, confront their own demons.

  They become convinced that the war will end when they finish their story. But it is the frenzied last year of the Final Solution. As the darkness gathers around them, they find themselves in a race not just to finish the novel but to somehow find a means of survival.

  The Paradise Ghetto is the story of two people whose lives are drawn together in unimaginable circumstances, and a reflection on the part books play in our lives.

  For my beautiful daughter, Ferga, who’s been blessed with so many talents

  Potemkin village: Any construction (literal or figurative) built solely to deceive others into thinking that a situation is better than it really is.

  1

  The Amsterdam attic apartment is freezing and since she is working today, Julia has had to strip and wash all over, so she is still cold from that. She wears her coat, scarf, and mittens and tries to warm herself with the coffee. She drinks it almost painfully hot while holding her hands tightly around the cup. It is real coffee, not adulterated in any way. She hasn’t had any for a long time and doesn’t know when she will have more. Bert gets it and he gave her some last time in part payment. Of course, she had to give her usual part payment too.

  She hates Bert. But at least you know where you stand with him. He seems to be one of those rare people – at least she’s found them to be rare – who are completely honest. Apparently he has a wife. What she must be like – given that Bert does what he does – Julia can only imagine.

  She stands by the small double window of her attic apartment. She is looking at the cobwebs on the outside. The night’s frost has encrusted them in white and she imagines them as miniature ropes in the impossibly complex rigging of some tiny ghostly sailing ship. She is captivated by them and it is only the sense that time is moving on and that she might be late that eventually snaps her out of her reverie.

  There are cobwebs on the inside too – there is one which has collapsed and bellies like a hammock. Julia never removes them. She thinks of them as the work of her little family, so that she is not alone. She really feels that she has built a home here. The last time she felt she had anything like this was that Christmas when her father gave her an elaborate doll’s house. She hopes that it is still safe and that one day she’ll be able to retrieve it.

  She’s glad to have some work at last. It’s always quiet over Christmas – she had expected that. Men want to be, or have to be, with their families – fucking hypocrites – but this year, Christmas seems to be running well into January. Maybe it’s the icy weather. Or maybe the Germans aren’t spending like they used to.

  The best thing is that it’s Friday. Even though there is little to distinguish one day from the next, Julia thinks of it as nearly the weekend. She will have money tonight. Food. Enough, for once. She is becoming dangerously bony. She thinks that Bert noticed it the last time. She needs to fatten up a little. If he stopped giving her work she’d be completely fucked.

  She looks round her eyrie, as she thinks of it. It may be grotty but it’s neat, as she likes it to be. Dishes from last night washed and put away, bed made, everything in its place.

  She looks at the picture, thumb-tacked to the wall. It is part of her ritual when she is heading out to work. The painting is called A Kiss, by someone called Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Julia found it in a magazine. In it, a little fair-haired girl proffers her cheek and receives a kiss from a woman with red hair. The red-haired woman lifts the little girl’s cheek slightly and holds her hand in the gentlest of grips. A second woman with black hair looks on at the scene. She has a strange expression on her face, like she’s not happy with what she’s seeing.

  In Julia’s mind, the black-haired woman is the little girl’s mother while the woman doing the kissing is a favourite aunt or friend of the family. It’s only possible to see the side of the aunt’s face but she looks kind and beautiful. From the expression on the little girl’s face, she loves her aunt. Julia imagines she is the only person in the world that the little girl can confide in. Julia imagines the kiss.

  But now she must go to work.

  She sighs a deep sigh and takes the last mouthful of coffee. Then she tips up the cup and lets the last drops fall onto her tongue. Coffee is such a beautiful thing. After the war she will drink as much of it as she likes – she will never not have some in her cupboard. She rinses the cup, upends it on the draining board and buttons her coat. She looks through the contents of her bag to make sure she has everything – mascara, eyeliner, red lipstick, powder, hairpins and brush, spare black stockings and lingerie, garter belt.

  Hanging on the inside of the front door is the 1944 calendar that Bert gave her – so that she’d never miss a session. Not that she ever has. At the end of every day, she crosses that day off. Another day closer to when the Germans will be gone. She just needs to hold on. Last night she drew a big ‘X’ through January 13th.

  Finally, she checks herself in the small mirror by the front door and goes out, locking the door of the dingy, tiny apartment behind her. Her old place was nicer but more expensive, more obvious. Here, she goes unnoticed. People keep to themselves.

  It’s like everybody has a secret.

  Outside it is bitterly cold, with a bone-chilling wind and a leaden sky that hints at snow. As she walks, she feels her blood starting to move; she warms up slightly. She hears a car behind her. That can only be Germans and, sure enough, a black Citroën appears in her peripheral vision. It slows slightly and the driver stares at her. It’s like the car hesitates but then it picks up speed again. She shudders and pulls her collar more closely around her neck.

  She thinks it’s funny how, once a thought comes into your head, it can keep coming back under similar circumstances. That first day she saw Germans, the first day of this new rule, it occurred to her that regimes may come and go, but lots of things don’t change at all. People still have to eat, sleep, go to work just as she is doing now, have sex – as she will shortly be doing.

  As she rounds the corner, she sees a couple of German soldiers on the other side of the street. Th
ey are not armed and one is not wearing a greatcoat – just his uniform with several of the tunic buttons open. They look like they’ve been on a night out and are both the worse for wear, walking along unsteadily. One is trying to light a cigarette but the lighter keeps missing the tip. Eventually, irritated, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and throws it away. She thinks to wait until they have passed and then go and retrieve the cigarette.

  But then they notice her. One of them wolf-whistles and Julia looks away and down at her feet. She walks faster.

  ‘Hey,’ one of them shouts in bad French. ‘Come and meet my friend, Dutch girl. He likes dark-haired women.’

  She is past them now and mercifully, they don’t come after her.

  Fuck them. Fucking Nazis. Fucking men. Fuck all of them.

  As she turns on to the street along the Vondelpark, she sees a discarded pear with a bite out of it on the pavement. She begins to salivate. She remembers the taste of pears. But you could catch anything from that ... She kicks it away savagely.

  The address Bert gave her is a stylish townhouse from the last century with a balcony, large windows and a richly ornamented façade. How does he find these places? Presumably their owners are still wealthy because they side with the Nazis. But how does Bert get their permission to let him use their houses? Do they know what he uses them for? Of course Bert must be in bed with the Nazis too. That’s where most of his business comes from.

  The concierge is an old lady, who smells like she hasn’t washed in a few days. She directs Julia to the stairs.

  ‘Second floor, door facing you. Bert is already up there,’ the woman says. Julia shakes her head. That’s another thing about Bert. He either knows everybody or, if he doesn’t, he’s about to. It only takes him a minute or two to make them feel like they’ve known him all their lives. Why do people take to guys like that? The thought makes her sour, resentful.

  She knocks on the door and a sharp-faced girl with dyed blonde hair, still in her street clothes, answers it. Julia doesn’t know her. She’s not one of Bert’s regulars. She must be new. She’s older than Julia – by maybe ten years, Julia reckons. Probably in her early thirties. Strange. Generally the girls are much younger. Sometimes much younger.

  ‘I’m Julia.’

  ‘Chantal,’ says the girl, who is smoking.

  She turns without another word and walks back down the hall, ass swaying, high heels clicking loudly on the parquet.

  Bitch.

  Julia has dark auburn hair. Bert likes to do this – blonde and black or blonde and brown. He’s told Julia he thinks of it as one of his trademarks.

  Fucking idiot. Bert thinks he’s fucking Cecil B. DeMille. Pompous prick.

  Now that she’s here she just wants to be done with it. She imagines herself in a couple of hours, stepping out into the street, money in her pocket, ready to go and buy things. She puts down her bag on a chair and is taking off her coat when Chantal says aggressively, ‘Are you Jewish?’

  Julia is so surprised by both the question and the way it is asked that the first words that come into her head are, ‘What if I am, you wizened old cunt?’ She is about to say this but, mercifully on this occasion, her brain stays a fraction of a second ahead of her mouth.

  ‘Of course not.’

  But now Chantal is looking at her queerly.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous,’ says Julia.

  A look of horror appears on Chantal’s face. She turns and walks towards the other room.

  ‘Bert!’ she calls, going in and slamming the door behind her.

  Julia finishes taking off her coat and goes to the door. Once again, her brain gets there before her. Rather than storming in as was her impulse, she stops and listens, ear against the door.

  ‘I’m not working with that Jewish bitch,’ Chantal says angrily.

  ‘Listen to Betty Grable here,’ Bert says.

  ‘Fuck you. I’m not working with her.’

  ‘She’s not Jewish,’ Bert says. ‘And if you don’t need the money, that’s fine. Fuck off. I can have someone else here in an hour.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ says Chantal, but already the wind is going out of her argument.

  ‘I told you she’s not Jewish,’ says Bert. ‘And anyway, what difference would it make?

  ‘It makes every difference,’ says Chantal, but now she just sounds like a sulky teenager.

  Julia breaks away from the door and moments later Chantal emerges. She flashes a look of absolute hatred at Julia.

  ‘Come on then,’ Bert calls from the other room. ‘Time to go into wardrobe.’

  Always with the Cecil B. DeMille. Dickhead.

  ‘We need to know the script,’ says Julia.

  It’s a dig at Bert. While it could be taken as just teasing, Julia doesn’t intend it to be. He is as much a failed filmmaker as she is a failed actress. The thought makes a flame of anger flare inside her.

  Bert emerges from the other room. He is a short dumpy man with a bald head, glasses and a light meter on a cord round his neck. Before the war he must have been very fat. Now, even though food is scarce, he has lost some weight but not that much. His shirt sticks out of the waistband of his trousers which are pressed down under his paunch. He is always sweating, especially when he is filming under lights. He is sweating now and carries a brown paper package tied with string.

  ‘The story is in three acts,’ he begins.

  This just makes Julia angrier.

  ‘In the first one, the postman delivers the package. Here, I’ve made up the package.’

  He hands it to Chantal.

  ‘You’re going to be the postman, Chantal.’

  ‘Why do I have to be the postman?’

  ‘Just shut up and be the fucking postman,’ Bert replies. He continues. ‘The postman delivers the package. You take the package, Julia, and open it. It’s a dress so you put it on. Then, the second act, Chantal – now no longer the postman but in character – comes along and finds you in the dress – the dress that she ordered. There’s a bit of an argument. Third act. Well, you know, after that it’s the usual. Clear?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Julia.

  She suddenly feels weary even though the day is only beginning. Chantal, still being sulky, says nothing.

  ‘So – wardrobe, ladies, please.’

  Bert flashes them a smile without warmth – it’s really pity. That or disgust.

  In the bedroom where most of the filming is due to take place, Bert has set up a short rolling rail. There are only a few items of clothing on it, mostly underwear, hanging forlornly from hangers. Julia would much rather wear her own underwear – there’s no telling where this stuff has been, who’s been using it or what they’ve been doing in it. But she has found that often her lingerie gets damaged – pants get ripped, stockings get laddered – and she can’t afford to keep replacing them. So reluctantly she will use some of the things on the rail.

  Chantal undresses and puts on all black – bra, knickers, garter belt, stockings. She takes a pair of black boots with high heels from a suitcase full of shoes that Bert has brought. Julia glances across at her. She has a nice body that is not as bony as Julia’s – Chantal is obviously getting food from some place – but her face isn’t that pretty. It’s kind of foxy.

  Julia smiles as she is reminded of that last summer before the war, before she left home. They had gone on holiday, she and her parents, by the sea at Scheveningen. Julia met an English girl – Sheila. They became real friends. Julia told her about wanting to become an actress and Sheila said she must come to London to study. They would get a flat together. They had leant on the railing of the promenade, people-watching – mainly boys. Sheila, who was really quite beautiful, was also scathing about some of the girls they saw. It was cruel really, but Julia couldn’t help but laugh when Sheila would call some girl ‘a dog’ or a ‘bug-eyed Betty’. Chantal is a dog.

  If Chantal is in black lingerie, then
Julia goes in white. This is standard practice in Bert’s films. She changes into a white bra, knickers and no stockings. She prefers not to think about the yellowish stains on the items she puts on. Over these, Julia adds a white blouse and a tight-fitting black skirt with a slit up the back. She picks a pair of black stilettos from the suitcase. The effect is demure – she looks like a perfectly flat-bellied secretary or office worker. Normally she and any other participants would have chatted while doing this – anything to make it bearable – but with Chantal there is an icy silence.

  When all of this is complete they are ready to start. Chantal puts her coat back on over her underwear, wraps one side over the other, and pulls the belt tight. The three of them move out into the hall. Chantal brings the package, Bert carries the heavy movie camera on its wooden tripod, sweating and cursing its weight, and Julia brings the microphone on its stand. Bert switches on the light in the hall. It’s not very bright and he looks at it with irritation. It’s obvious that he’s considering bringing the arc light from the bedroom. But he eventually decides he can’t be bothered and that the hall light is sufficient. He checks the light meter just to be sure and confirms that it’s acceptable. Bert is careful about attention to detail. Maybe, in another life, he might have been Cecil B. DeMille.

  Now that they’ve started, Julia feels her anger slip away as the other, professional Julia, takes over. It may not be a very noble profession but it is the one she has.

  The camera and mic are about four metres from the door. Bert looks through the viewfinder and adjusts a couple of things. Finally he is ready to start.

  ‘All right, Chantal,’ he says. ‘Action!’

  Chantal goes out the front door and closes it behind her. Julia stands to one side of Bert, out of shot.

  ‘Rolling,’ he calls loudly, so that Chantal can hear.

  There is a knock on the door. Julia walks on in front of the camera, swinging her ass, and goes to the door. Just to irritate Chantal, she asks, ‘Who is it?’

  She can hear the annoyance in Chantal’s voice as she calls back in a poor imitation of a male voice, ‘Postman!’ Julia opens the door slightly but not enough that the camera can see Chantal. Julia takes the package, thanks the ‘postman’ and closes the door again. Then she walks down the hall and past the camera. Bert yells ‘Cut’ and picks up the camera to take it back to the bedroom.