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I NEVER SAW ANOTHER BUTTERFLY

A play by Celeste Raspanti

CAST LIST:

Adult Raja Englanderova

Young Raja Englanderova
Anna Englanderova, Raja’s mother
Josef Englanderova, Raja’s father
Pavel Englanderova, Raja’s brother
Aunt Vera, Josef’s sister
Erika Schlager, Raja’s friend
Irca, Pavel’s fiancée
Irena Synkova, a teacher
Renka, Irena’s assistant
Honza Kosek
Rabbi
Children
2 German Soldiers
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(ADULT RAJA enters. EVERYONE enters in procession.)

ADULT RAJA. My name is Raja Englanderova. I was born in Prague. I am a Jew – and I survived Terezin.

ACTOR 6. Zuzana Winterova, 11 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, October 4, 1944.

ACTOR 9. Gabriela Freiova, 10 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, May 18, 1944.

ACTOR 3. Frantisek Brozan, 14 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, December 15, 1943.

ACTOR 7. Eva Bulova, 15 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, October 4, 1944.

ACTOR 4. Liana Franklova, 13 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, October 19, 1944.

ACTOR 2. Alfred Weisskopf, 16 years old. Perished at Auschwitz, December 18, 1944.

HONZA. Honza Kosek, 16 ½ years old. Perished at Auschwitz, January 21, 1945.

(EVERYONE freezes.)

ADULT RAJA. My name is Raja Englanderova. I was born in Prague. Father, Mother, Pavel, Irca, Irena,
Honza. (Looks at HONZA. HONZA unfreezes and exits. Pause. OTHERS unfreeze and exit.) They are all
gone and I am alone. But that is not important. Only one thing is important. That I am a Jew and that I
survived.

SOLDIER 1. March 5, 1939. German Wehrmacht enters Prague.

SOLDIER 2. December 1, 1939. Jewish children excluded from state elementary schools.

(Soldiers exit. Lights come up on MOTHER. She is preparing for the Sabbath. RAJA and PAVEL enter.)

MOTHER. Raja, cover the bread and close the door to the kitchen, so the candles don’t go out.

RAJA. Papa’s coming up the street. Aunt Vera is with him. I can see them from the back window. (goes
to window)

MOTHER. Raja, you must not open the shutters. I’ve told you that. (RAJA does not answer) Do you
hear?

PAVEL. She’ll get us all in trouble!

MOTHER. She’ll be careful. Raja, come, it’s time to light the Sabbath.
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RAJA. Without Papa? He’s coming …

MOTHER. Then he will be here. Come away from the window. Now.

(FATHER and AUNT VERA enter.)

MOTHER. Papa, at last!

FATHER. All right, Mama, all right. I’m late, but …

RAJA. I saw you from the window, so you weren’t really late, Papa.

FATHER. Of course not. As long as I am in sight I’m not late. Besides, I was delayed by your Aunt Vera.

AUNT VERA. I knew I would be blamed for it all. It’s true this time, Anna. I kept him waiting. You’ll
understand.

MOTHER. Of course you would protect him.

FATHER. Now, Anna. I’m here.

(Everyone moves to their places at the table to begin lighting the Sabbath candles. They are interrupted
by the sound of very low flying planes. Their eyes follow the sound of each plane as it passes overhead.
PAVEL goes to the window to look.)

MOTHER. Pavel. Come away from the window. We must keep the shutters closed. You know that.

PAVEL. Nazis. So close you can see the damned swastikas on the wings.

MOTHER. Pavel! The Sabbath!

PAVEL. Sabbath eve and the Nazis about to join us.

AUNT VERA. Pavel, if you … if we are not careful …

RAJA. They’re gone now.

FATHER. (to Pavel) Be careful. (to all) We must all be careful. Tonight the planes, tomorrow tanks …

MOTHER. Tomorrow? Josef, what do you mean?

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FATHER. Mama. Pavel. All of you … Mama …today … today I lost my place …

MOTHER. Josef, it can’t be true …

FATHER. We all knew it had to come.

MOTHER. But you were promised.

FATHER. Promises. What do they mean? I must report to work at Litomerice – they are building a
station …

RAJA. But, Papa, you’re not a carpenter. You’re a teacher.

AUNT VERA. Hush, Raja. Let your father explain …

FATHER. I must learn manual labor. Imagine. All of us at the school. All of us.

PAVEL. Building a station.

FATHER. Today they came to the school. We were given one hour to clear away – books, papers,
everything. One hour after all those years.

MOTHER. And the school?

AUNT VERA. Anna, wait. There is still more.

FATHER. Mama, it may be that – that we will have to move – again. It may be that – we must do so.
The landlord is German and we are …

PAVEL. Jews!

AUNT VERA. Pavel, try to have patience …

FATHER. We are Jews. They are relocating the boundaries. Twelve blocks on either side. And we must
– all of us – move into the area of the old ghetto.

MOTHER. So … once again.

RAJA. But, Papa, they promised!

MOTHER. How soon?

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FATHER. Tomorrow.

AUNT VERA. By sundown. Sabbath sundown, Anna.

PAVEL. They give us the Sabbath to get ready. It saves a working day. What did you tell the landlord,
Papa?

FATHER. What should I have told him? Some say it is the last order.

PAVEL. Someone always says this will be the last order. But every month the ghetto grows smaller.

RATHER. What should I tell him? What does a Jew tell his German landlord?

PAVEL. They can’t expect us to …

MOTHER. And Vera?

FATHER. The women, too. They were released to work in the streets.

AUNT VERA. All unmarried women must report to work in the streets with the men.

PAVEL. Irca?

FATHER. Irca, too. Mama, you must give up the school. Jews are no longer allowed to teach.

PAVEL. Irca. Where is she?

FATHER. They were turned out in the streets with the rest.

PAVEL. But we thought the council was going to appeal. Why does the council sit waiting while the
whole Nazi army walks in?

FATHER. There have been meetings.

PAVEL. Talk!

FATHER. There are considerations. So, you will attack? Shout slogans? You and your friends? Be
brave?

PAVEL. Better than hiding behind our prayer shawls.

MOTHER. Pavel, you go too far.

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PAVEL. At least shouting lets the Nazis know we’re alive.

FATHER. You go too far … too far. You think we don’t know. Last night. Your little joke. At the Regional
Theater.

MOTHER. The Regional Theater? Pavel, you know Jews are not allowed to …

PAVEL. A little joke on the guards. (to FATHER) What do you know? (a look from FATHER) So we
stoned out the lights in the street and ambushed them near the theater arcade. They never knew what
happened to them …

FATHER. A joke?! No so amusing this morning. Hanus was taken. His number was called out before the
rest.

PAVEL. Why Hanus?

MOTHER. Josef, you are not telling us everything.

FATHER. A guard knows one of the council members. He said he recognized the man’s son among the
‘pranksters.’

PAVEL. But Hanus wasn’t there. He didn’t even know about it.

FATHER. The guard said he recognized him. There is no quarreling with a Nazi guard.

PAVEL. And the rest of the council? They didn’t intervene? No one protested?

FATHER. Hanus is on the train now.

PAVEL. Without a word. The cowards!

FATHER. Pavel …

PAVEL. No wonder the star is yellow.

FATHER. (slapping him) You go too far … too far.

PAVEL. Papa, I’m sorry, but …

FATHER. But you do not understand. You cannot.

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PAVEL. I understand. I have this to remind me. (gestures to star)

MOTHER. What is this talk? The star cannot destroy us. But I will tell you what can …

AUNT VERA. Anna, the boy doesn’t know what he is saying.

MOTHER. I will tell you what can kill us. To starve! No white bread, no meat, no cheese, no fish,
poultry, fruit, jam.

AUNT VERA. Anna, please.

MOTHER. None of it for a Jew. This will destroy us. To be denied the necessities of life.

PAVEL. I know, Mama.

MOTHER. And for your father no tobacco, no cigars, no cigarettes, no beer. All the little pleasures taken
away.

PAVEL. I know that, Mama.

MOTHER. And the big ones, too. The school. The Synagogue. This … this will destroy us.

PAVEL. Mama, for God’s sake!

MOTHER. No. I am not yet finished. Being a Jew … it means for all of us separation – and the fear of
separation. Planes today. Tanks tomorrow. And always the guards – the Nazis. You and your foolish
bravado. And we may all be lost … all lost.

PAVEL. I know, Mama. I see what’s going on. But to just endure. It seems so …

FATHER. Weak? To you it’s weak. But think. The Nazis want us to work for them. If we must work, we
must eat. There’s that chance for life.

PAVEL. I don’t call this living.

MOTHER. But while we live, we stay together. And perhaps later …

FATHER. Yes. If they bid us work, then we will eat, and we may survive this war – together. It cannot
last much longer.

PAVEL. All right, Papa.

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FATHER. All right. All right. So no more shouting and no more jokes on Nazi guards. In a few months
we will be back in our flat. Huber has promised to keep the furniture for us. He does not wish us harm.
It will be here when we come back.

PAVEL. Yes, Papa.

FATHER. And you and Irca will be married, as we planned. You will see … I promise.

PAVEL. Promises.

FATHER. You will see. Come now, Mama, the lights.

(Everyone resumes their places at the table and MOTHER begins to light the Sabbath candles.)

MOTHER. Baruch ata Adonai …

(As the Sabbath ceremony take place, planes pass overhead, sound of tanks and marching feet.)

PAVEL. Tanks and guards. (moves to window) They’re in the street.

MOTHER. Eloheinu melech haolam asher kidishanu bimitzvotav …

PAVEL. They’re cordoning off the street.

FATHER. They’ll be here soon. Pavel, the Sabbath.

(PAVEL returns to table. The sound of tanks rolling through the street, marching feet, and planes.)

MOTHER: vitzivanoo lihadleek ner shel Shabat kodesh.

(Soldiers enter.)

SOLDIER 1. June 14, 1940. Auschwitz concentration camp set up.

SOLDIER 2. September 27, 1941. Reinhard Heydrich orders mass deportation of Jews and establishes
Terezin as a Jewish ghetto.

SOLDIER 1. October 16, 1941. First transports leave Prague for Terezin.

ADULT RAJA. We waited our turn and hoped. Families moved in together as the ghetto shrunk. We
moved in with Irca’s family. Then we moved again. Each week another decree shrank our ghetto – and
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our lives. Even then we couldn’t – wouldn’t – really believe it all. It was incredible. Our friends lined
the streets and watched us leave. Five thousand Jews.

(ERIKA enters.)

ADULT RAJA. Erika Schlager called to me.

ERIKA. Raja! Raja! Where are you going? Come with me to the cinema!

RAJA. I can’t, Erika. We have to go to the Municipal Building.

ERIKA. But why?

RAJA. I don’t know.

ERIKA. Didn’t they say why?

RAJA. They just say we have to go.

ADULT RAJA. I ran ahead to join my mother. That was the day we left home.

(SOLDIERS enter.)

SOLDIER 1. Jews! Achtung! Step quickly. Men left. Women and children right.

SOLDIER 2. Men left. Women and children right. Keep moving. Schnell. Schnell.

IRENA. (gathering the CHILDREN) Don’t be afraid. We’re only going on the train.

CHILD 1. Where’s Father? What happened to Father?

IRENA. You’ll see him again at the camp. Quiet now. We must wait.

CHILD 2. It’s been so long. I’m thirsty.

CHILD 3. I’m hungry. Please, is there bread?

IRENA. Wait. Wait. Just a little while and we’ll have plenty of food.

CHILD 1. When will we be there? Will Father be there?

IRENA. Patience.
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CHILD 4. Are we going to work? They told us we would work together.

CHILD 5. They told me to remember this number always.

IRENA. Yes. You must remember. At roll call they will ask your number. You must remember and
answer promptly. But you are not numbers, you have a name. You must always remember that.

CHILD 6. They laughed and told us we were marked like pigs. They said it will never go away.

IRENA. Quiet now. Don’t be afraid. Remember, you are not alone. Whatever you see or hear,
whatever is done, remember we are together. And then you will not be afraid. Come sit close together.

(Train sounds.)

ADULT RAJA. Terezin was a fortress built by Emperor Joseph II of Austria for his mother Maria Teresa.
About sixty kilometers from Prague, it slept quietly in its green valley under blue skies until …

(EVERYONE exits. IRENA stays on stage.)

RENKA. (entering) Irena. Irena Synkova. It’s Renka.

IRENA. Here. In the back. Have the children arrived?

RENKA. Yes. Nearly four hundred. More than the earlier transport. (CHILDREN enter.) Come, come
along. We’ll go with the others.

IRENA. Later, when the workers return and the older children, we’ll find places for them in the barracks.
Each one must have a place.

RENKA. And tomorrow? When another trainload arrives?

IRENA. We’ll find a place for them in the barracks. And here in the school. They must start living again.
(to the CHILDREN) School. Yes, you will go to school again. But go along now with Renka to the bath-
house and then supper. I promise.

RENKA. Come.

(RENKA and the CHILDREN exit. RAJA lags behind.)

IRENA. You must go along to the bath-house, dear.

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RAJA. They told Papa, ‘Come along now to the bath-house. You must take a shower so that we don’t
get any sickness in the camp.’ They told him to leave his clothes in the yard on the ground in front of
him. They told him to put his shoes next to his clothes so he could find them again. But they took him
to the gas. He never got his shoes.

IRENA. Don’t be afraid. This is a real bath-house. You can have soap and take a shower.

RAJA. They took him to the bath-house. He never got his shoes.

IRENA. That was Auschwitz. Here you are with friends. What is your name? I am Irena Synkova. I’m a
teacher here in Terezin. You’ll come to school with us, won’t you. You are from Prague? I taught in
Prague. It’s a beautiful city. When I first came to Prague, I was about your age. I remember how
frightened I was. But after I made some friends, I was happy to live there. Now you are not alone and
you must not be afraid either. Now that you know my name, you must tell me yours. How can we be
friends? I won’t know what to call you.

RAJA. My number is tattooed here.

(IRENA looks in pack and finds identification tag)

IRENA. Raja Englanderova. Come Raja, Raja Englanderova. Let me tell you about our school. There’s so
much to do here in school. You will be coming here, tomorrow perhaps. There are many children here.
We have few books – but we have many songs. Every day, if you wish, you may paint and draw. Here.
See. Each of the children has drawn a spring picture. Would you like to paint? I’ll find some paper for
you, then, tomorrow. Tomorrow you may begin. See. We save all the paper we can find – forms,
wrapping paper – and some of the children brought their own. And when there’s enough, the children
draw and paint. Would you like to choose a piece of your own, Raja?

RAJA. My … name … is … Raya.

ADULT RAJA. I was one of them – the children of Terezin. One who saw everything. The barbed wire
fence, the rats, the lice. One who knew hunger, dirt and smells. One who heard trains arrive and leave,
screaming sirens, and the tread of heavy feet in the dark. I sat in Irena Synkova’s classroom and slowly I
began to heal. I and hundreds of children who passed through her school. (CHILDREN enter chattering
and playing.) It was months before I could say anything but ‘My name is Raja.’ I said it over and over to
hear the sound of my voice – perhaps just to make sure I still knew my name. Raja. It was an
achievement for me. Irena knew it. She gave me paper and paint, and I wrote my name in stiff, crippled
characters. Raja, Raja, Raja! It helped me to be sure I was still alive. One day I suddenly wrote another
name. ‘Irena.’ Then I knew I was healed. I could paint and draw and speak again. I could tell Irena the
things I was no longer afraid to remember. And I could write and paint the story of those days. The
singing, the reading, the learning – the poetry and the drawings – this was part of our survival. In spite
of the SS guards and the orders against teaching, Irena kept school in the children’s barracks. An older
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child was always on guard and at sight of the SS men they whistled, and teaching turned into children’s
games. Games were permitted, but learning was a crime for Jews.

CHILD 1. The last, the very last,

So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing against a white stone …

Such, such a yellow

Is carried lightly way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to kiss the world goodbye.

For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,

Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.

Butterflies don’t live here, in the ghetto.

CHILD 2. It is weeks since I came here. I did not know that such a thing could happen to me. When I go
home, I’m going to eat only white bread.

CHILD 3. When I go home, I’m going to make my bed every day, clean.

CHILD 4. When I go home, I’m going to drink hot chocolate in the winter. Lots of it.

CHILD 5. When I go home, I’m going to have pretty white curtains. Rugs, too.

CHILD 6. When I go home, I’m going to play ball in the courtyard and shout if I want to.

CHILD 7. When I go home, I’m going to sit very quiet and read storybooks as long as I want to. All night
maybe.

CHILD 8. When I go home, I’m going to play the piano and everyone will sing, and we won’t care how
noisy we are.

RAJA. When I go home …

CHILD ON GUARD. Soldier!

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(SOLDIER enters. SOLDIER exits.)

RAJA. I’ve lived here in the ghetto more than a year,

In Terezin, in the black town now,
And when I remember my old home so dear,
I can love it more than I did somehow.

Ah, home, home,

Why did they ever tear me away?
Here the weak die easy as a feather.
And when they die, they die forever.

I’d like to go back home again,

It makes me think of sweet spring flowers.
Before, when I used to live at home,
It never seemed so dear and fair.

I remember now those golden days …

But maybe I’ll be going there soon again.

People walk along the street,

you see at once on each you meet
That there’s a ghetto here,
A place of evil and of fear.
There’s little to eat and much to want,
Where bit by bit, it’s horror to live.
But no one must give up!
The world turns and times change.

Yet we all hope the time will come

When we’ll go home again.
Now I know how dear it is
And often I remember it.

RENKA. Does anyone else have something they’d like to read?

CHILD. I have one, but it’s too silly. I call it “The Little Mouse.”

IRENA. Well, we’ve certainly seen enough of those around here. It would be good to laugh at them for
a change. Go ahead Hanus.
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HANUS. A mousie sat upon a shelf,

catching fleas in his coat of fur.
But he couldn’t catch her – what chagrin!
She’d hidden way inside his skin.
He turned and wriggled, knew no rest,
That flea was such a nasty pest.

His daddy came and searched his coat.

He caught the flea and off he ran
To cook her in the frying pan.
The little mouse cried, “Come and see!
For lunch we’ve got a nice fat flea!”

CHILD. I’m next, I’m next!

IRENA. All right, Eva, all right. You’re next.

EVA. In Terezin in the so-called park

A queer old granddad sits.
Somewhere in the so-called park.
He wears a beard down to his lap
And on his head a little cap.
Hard crusts he crumbles in his gums,
He’s only got one single tooth.
Instead of soft rolls, lentil soup.
Pour old greybeard.

CHILD. May I call you “Grandfather?” You have no little girl and I have no grandpa.

RENKA. Might I read a poem I’ve written?

IRENA. Of course, Renka. It’s good for us to all share with each other.

RENKA. Yes, if we all stand together it makes it so we don’t feel so alone.

On a purple, sun-shot evening

Under wide-flowering chestnut trees
Upon the threshold of dust
Yesterday, today, the days are all like these.

Trees flower forth in beauty,

Lovely, too, their very wood all gnarled and old
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That I am half afraid to peer

Into their crowns of green and gold.

The sun has made a veil of gold

So lovely that my body aches.
Above the heavens shriek with blue
Convinced I’ve smiled by some mistake.
The world’s abloom and seems to smile.
I want to fly but where, how high?
If in barbed wire, things can bloom
Why couldn’t I? I will not die!

RAJA. (writing) Tuesday, March 16, 1943. Today I went to see my uncle in the Sudeten
barracks, and there I saw them throw potato peelings and people threw themselves on the little piles
and fought for them.

CHILD. (writing) Tuesday, April 6, 1943. Tomorrow the SS men are coming and no children can go out
on the street. Daddy won’t know this and I’ll die of hunger by evening. Wednesday, April 7, 1943. I
missed Daddy yesterday, but I didn’t cry. The other children couldn’t see their parents either.

CHILD. (writing) We are not allowed to go out of the barracks. We can’t go out in the streets without a
pass and children don’t get a pass. They say this can last a week or even months. Like a bird in a cage.

RAJA. (writing) Last night I had a beautiful dream. I was home. I saw our flat and our street. Now I am
disappointed and out of sorts because I woke in the bunk instead of in my own bed. This isn’t a home,
it’s a hospital. Half the children are sick. Everyone avoids us and the number of sick goes up every day.

RAJA. (writing) It’s terrible here now. There is a great deal of tension among the older children. They
are going to send transports into … the unknown. And fifteen hundred more children have arrived. We
don’t know much about them, everyone is forbidden under threat of punishment to have any contact
with them. We’ve heard they’re from Poland, but we don’t know. We just caught glimpses of them as
they were marched to the Receiving Office.

(RENKA leads in a group of 3 NEW CHILDREN.)

CHILD. They look awful. You can’t even guess how old they are, they all have old faces and very thin
little bodies. They’re all bare legged, no stockings, and only a few of them even have shoes. They came
out of the Receiving Office with shaved heads, which means they have lice. Their eyes are full of fear
and they screamed when they were sent to the showers. Why did they act so strangely?

NEW CHILD 1. Everything is so strange. Different from anywhere else in the world.
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NEW CHILD 2. We sleep in bunks and everywhere lots of people are packed in.

NEW CHILD 3. Mothers and fathers don’t live together and children live away from them.

NEW CHILD 1. I haven’t seen my mother for so long. I don’t even know if she has arrived. Irena says
that somewhere she is looking for me; if I stay here and keep well, she will find me. I wonder where she
is … and Father … and Grandpa.

NEW CHILD 3. I have never been away from home before. This is my first time away from my parents.
I’ve learned to appreciate ordinary things that, when we had when we were still free, we didn’t notice
them at all. Like riding a bus or a train, or walking along a road, or going to buy ice cream. Such an
ordinary thing is out of our reach here.

NEW CHILD 2. We get used to standing in line at seven o’clock in the morning, at twelve noon, and
again at seven o’clock in the evening. We stand in a long line with a plate in our hand and they give us a
little warmed up water with a salty or coffee flavor. Sometimes they give us a few potatoes. We get
used to sleeping without a bed, to saluting every uniform, to not walking on the sidewalks, and then
again to walking on the sidewalks. We get used to undeserved slaps, blows, and executions. We get
used to seeing people die in their own excrement, to seeing piled up coffins full of corpses, to seeing the
sick amidst dirt and filth. We get used to it that from time to time one thousand unhappy souls would
come here and that from time to time another thousand unhappy souls would go away …

(CHILDREN, RENKA and RENKA exit.)

ADULT RAJA. Monday September 6, 1943. I got up at six to see Zdenka. When I came up to the
barracks the last people were just going through the back gates and getting on the train. Everything was
boarded up all around so no one could get to them and so they could not run away. I saw the train
pulling away and in one of the cars Zdenka was riding.

RAJA. Where did they send Zdenka?

IRENA. The transport … to the east.

RAJA. Auschwitz. She will not come back. Jiri told us. And he knows. You die if you go to Auschwitz.

IRENA. Raja …

RAJA. It is true. I know. You die … and the ovens … and the chimneys. When you die you burn to ashes.

IRENA. We do not know this is true.

RAJA. I know. And you know, too. You think that because we are children that we do not know.
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IRENA. What have you heard? Where?

RAJA. Jiri told us. He came from Warsaw. You die if you go to Auschwitz. No one returns. Jiri was
there. He escaped. He told us. How is it that you do not know?

IRENA. I’ve heard the same talk. We all have. It can’t be true. Think, Raja, such things cannot be true.

RAJA. But it is. He told us. We are going to die.

IRENA. Raja … wait. You are only afraid. Wait.

RAJA. Irena – I want to go home. I hate this place and … and … everything.

IRENA. Everything?

RAJA. Yes. What’s the use of anything if we are going to die? Zdenka … Last night we shared our bread
and sang together. And now she is gone.

(The next two lines are spoken over each other.)

IRENA. I know. I miss them, too. I know … I know.

RAJA. And Eva and Miriam and Marianna. Gabriela and Zuzana …

RAJA. We promised. We said we’d keep together. that next year in Prague we’d go to school …
together. Now there is nothing left.

IRENA. I know. They were your friends. You loved them. Do not forget how you worked together – in
this very room. And the poems and the songs. Eva, Zuzana and Gabriela … their pictures. See …

RAJA. No. They will burn them, too.

IRENA. Raja, listen to me. You are no longer a child. This minute you are no longer a child. And so I tell
you … I have a child. She is nine years old. She was torn away from my arms and thrown from the train
by an angry guard. I tried to throw myself after her, but I was dragged back into the car. I wanted to
die. Until I came to Terezin and found thousands of children waiting for me. Then I knew I must not die.
Do you understand? You are no longer a child, and so I tell you. I have a child and she lives whenever I
comfort another child or dry another child’s tears.

ADULT RAJA. Fear. That is half the story of Terezin. Its beginning, but not its end. I was a child there. I
knew that word. I became a woman there because I learned another word from Irca and Pavel, from
 PAGE 18

Mother and Aunt Vera, from Renka and from Irena Synkova. I learned the word “courage” and found
the determination to live … to believe in life.

(IRCA and PAVEL, RABBI, and some OTHERS enter.)

IRCA. I believe in life, Pavel, and I am coming with you. I settled everything myself and I have a number
in your transport.

PAVEL. No. Your mother and father need you. Go back to the barracks.

IRCA. Pavel, you are closer to me than my parents. And they have each other. I have you. I must come
with you.

PAVEL. Rabbi, we want – Could you marry us, Rabbi?

RABBI. I can. Do you have a wedding ring?

IRCA. (taking hairpin out of her hair and twisting it) Yes.

RABBI. How much time?

PAVEL. An hour at most.

RABBI. That will be enough. Come, come all. Someone keep watch.

(OTHERS gather.)

RABBI. Blessed are you who come in the name of Adonai. It is tradition that in times of great trial, we
hold a wedding in the place of mourning and ask God to extend the joy and love of the bride and groom
to all those in need of comfort. We have sunk very low, but we have not let our sad fate overwhelm us.
We have not lost hope that right will ultimately be victorious over injustice, peace over war, love over
hatred. May the One who is mighty and blessed above all bless Pavel and Irca. Just as their love has
survived in the face of evil, so may we survive.

(During the following Irca walks seven times around Pavel)

RABBI. Happy those who live in your house and praise you all day long;
Happy the pilgrims inspired by you with courage to make the journey.
God our shield, now look on us and be kind to your anointed.
For God is battlement and shield conferring grace and glory;
Adonai withholds nothing good from those who walk without blame.
As they walk through the Valley of Sorrow, they make it a place of springs.
 PAGE 19

Baruch atau Adonai elohanu melach ha’olum borea pri hagafen.

PAVEL. With this ring you are consecrated to me as my wife, according to the faith of Moses and Israel.

RABBI. May the Lord bless you and protect you. May the Lord show you favor and be gracious unto
you. May the Lord turn in loving kindness to you and show you peace. Amen.

(Train sounds.)

ADULT RAJA. One by one the transports came. Mother and Aunt Vera – they went. (MOTHER, AUNT
VERA, and RABBI exit.) Pavel and Irca – they went. (PAVEL and IRCA exit.) Everyone I knew and loved
in Prague. There was no one left who could remember me before I had come here as a child of twelve.
But there were many left standing at the train as the transports started up – the cars crowded, boarded,
sealed …

HONZA. Jiri! They said they wouldn’t take him. He was a plumber, an electrician, so clever, so useful.
Everyone said they wouldn’t take him.

RAJA. Everyone goes. Jiri. Was he your friend?

HONZA. He was – is – my brother.

RAJA. You’re Honza Kosek. I heard about you. My name is Raja – Raja Englanderova. My brother Pavel
and Irca …

HONZA. I know. They just got married – and now … What’s the good of that?

RAJA. They’re still together.

HONZA. What’s the good of that?

RAJA. Together they’ll not be afraid. That’s the good.

HONZA. You are afraid.

RAJA. What if I am? You’re laughing at me. You think I’m a coward.

HONZA. I’m laughing at you because you’re a girl and you don’t know the first thing about … about
anything.

RAJA. Well, it’s all easy for you. I’ve heard how you get by the guards. It’s easy for a boy.
 PAGE 20

HONZA. Maybe. My father was beaten and left for dead before my eyes. I saw it. I couldn’t move. I
was so afraid. But I didn’t run. I never understood it until my father, dying, told me, “You’re a good boy,
Honza. You are afraid, but you are not a coward.”

RAJA. I’m sorry.

RAJA. Well, it’s late. I have to go.

HONZA. Where are you going?

RAJA. Number twenty-five. Where do you live?

HONZA. House number two. On the other side, near the wall.

RAJA. There’re thirty girls in our group. Most of us are from Prague. Irena – she’s in charge of the
whole compound – she lives with us.

HONZA. We live alone. We elect our own leader and we have meetings … secret ones.

RAJA. Don’t you have one of the older men there?

HONZA. What for? We’re all old enough. We work in the fields.

RAJA. So do we – some of us. I do. I’m old enough.

HONZA. We take care of everything ourselves. I’m the leader now. I was elected. So I’m in charge.

RAJA. Don’t you go to school. At night, after work?

HONZA. We do sometimes. Sometimes we have meetings – the leaders from the boys’ homes – and we
talk and plan …

RAJA. Plan what?

HONZA. Oh, like someone gets an idea about something and we talk about it. Or someone does
something we don’t like and we tell him to quit it or else. A lot of things. We’re working on something
right now.

RAJA. For the boys’ home?

HONZA. Well, not just for the boys. We’re going to have a newspaper and report the news in camp.
 PAGE 21

RAJA. Have you got a printing press?

HONZA. No. We don’t need that. It’s not that kind of a paper. We’ll make copies of the news and hang
them around the barracks. It’s my idea.

RAJA. Will you put one in the girls’ home?

HONZA. I suppose we could – I never thought about it.

RAJA. I’d copy it over. I could do that.

HONZA. I’d have to talk about it with the rest. I suppose it’s a good idea.

HONZA. Well. I guess I’ve got to go now. We’re going to have a meeting about the paper. You can
come if you want to.

ADULT RAJA. And so Vedem was born, and lived for three years – and helped us live. We waited to read
the copy posted in our barracks. And later when, for safety, it was read aloud instead, no one was
missing. It was an invisible line of communication between the houses so that even across the dark
yards and crowded barracks, the youth of Terezin grew up together.

HONZA. Raja?

RAJA. Yes. I can only stay a few minutes. Is this week’s Vedem ready?

HONZA. Here it is.

RAJA. I’ll take it and get started.

HONZA. Wait … I was thinking – we’ve talked about it at the meeting – we could run some of the poems
from the girls’ house when there’s room.

RAJA. Good. Irena will be glad of that. She said it might happen. The smaller girls got all excited.

HONZA. There won’t be room for too many.

RAJA. I’ll tell her. I’ll see you.

HONZA. Wait … I saw you in the field today. Of course, I couldn’t say anything.

RAJA. I know. I saw you across the road.

 PAGE 22

HONZA. Maybe we could plan a way to meet there – in case there are messages … or anything.

RAJA. It wouldn’t be safe. The guards are everywhere.

HONZA. We meet here at night.

RAJA. The guards think we’re inside the barracks.

HONZA. I’m not afraid. Are you?

RAJA. No … yes … I guess I am. They’d beat you.

HONZA. It wouldn’t be the first time. I always get up again.

RAJA. Someday …

HONZA. Someday, maybe, I won’t, I suppose. What difference does it make?

RAJA. Don’t talk like that. I’ll go if you do.

HONZA. Wait … wait. I’m only teasing.

RAJA. It would be lonesome without you. I mean … the boys need you … and the paper … and the
children. Irena says you’re the only one she can trust to bury the drawings and the poems.

HONZA. Others would do that.

RAJA. It would be hard … I mean … these months … we’ve been good friends … I’d miss you, too.

HONZA. I meant to say that first.

RAJA. I know. Good night.

HONZA. Good night.

(Another day.)

HONZA. Raja! Raja!

RAJA. Yes ... I’m here.

HONZA. I have some flowers for you.

 PAGE 23

RAJA. Honza, if you get caught …

HONZA. You know the square in front of the tower?

RAJA. The prisoners aren’t allowed there.

HONZA. I know. But they can’t stop us from looking at it. Look. From here. See the flowers near the
corner – and the butterflies?

RAJA. I see them …

HONZA. Well, I’m giving them to you. And every time you pass …

RAJA. … I’ll say, “They’re mine. Honza gave them to me. All the flowers and all the butterflies.” Thank
you! Oh, thank you!

(Another day.)

RAJA. Honza.

HONZA. Over here.

RAJA. Irena gave me a book of poetry. I left it for you at the end of the field near the shed. I want you
to read one special poem.

HONZA. I found it – and read it and I left one for you. Look for it.

HONZA. Raja (he hands her something wrapped in a small rag.) Look.

RAJA. What is it?

HONZA. Open it. Careful! It’s very expensive.

RAJA. It must be – since you crawled through the barracks to bring it. Why didn’t you leave it in the
shed?

HONZA. It can’t be left – not around here.

RAJA. (opens package) Honza! Bread! You’re wonderful! A whole roll! I haven’t – Where did you get
it?
 PAGE 24

HONZA. I liberated it.

RAJA. Liberated it? Honza …

HONZA. Actually, I took it.

RAJA. Stole it. No wonder it tastes so good. You’re so brave!

HONZA. Listen. I won’t be here for a few days.

RAJA. Why? Where are you going?

HONZA. Don’t take any chances … coming to meet me, I mean.

RAJA. Honza, what is it?

HONZA. Nothing. A special detail to build something outside the camp. They’re picking the strongest –
I’ll be chosen.

RAJA. But what if something happens?

HONZA. Nothing will happen. And there’s a chance for extra food. Maybe even a sausage to go with
your bread.

RAJA. I don’t care about sausage. Honza, I’m afraid!

HONZA. Don’t worry. They want the job done. It’s some kind of walled courtyard. Nothing much can
happen. Well, I have to go.

RAJA. Good-bye then. Good-bye. I’ll be waiting. (HONZA exits) Waiting. Please come back.

(IRENA enters.)

RAJA. I’ve been holding my breath all these days … waiting … waiting … I can’t think of anything else but
Honza.

IRENA. What will you do if he does not come back? If weeks and months pass?

RAJA. Wait and hold my breath for tomorrow. Then wait again.

IRENA. Waiting days are long days, Raja. You must learn to stop thinking of tomorrow and to keep alive
today. That’s the secret of waiting – remember that – to keep alive today.
 PAGE 25

RAJA. Part of me will always be waiting.

IRENA. Then you must do what we all learn to do to make waiting bearable.

RAJA. I don’t know how. I’m afraid.

IRENA. Afraid of tomorrow? Then think of today – now. Can you live until tonight?

RAJA. Yes.

IRENA. And tomorrow morning. Do you think you can live till noon?

RAJA. Yes.

IRENA. And at noon, in the heat and the hunger, in the stench and the weariness. Can you wait until
night?

RAJA. Yes, yes.

IRENA. Then you will survive. Each day you find some reason.

RAJA. As you have done.

IRENA. Yes. Somehow one of us is sure to survive. One of us must teach the children how to sing again,
to write on paper with a pencil, to do sums and draw pictures. So we survive each day.

(RENKA enters.)

RENKA. Irena. I just got this.

IRENA. Thank you. (RENKA exits) Raja, Raja. A message came through!

RAJA. What is it? Tell me. Tell me.

IRENA. The boys are back. All of them.

(ACTORS enter)

ACTOR 1. Eva Heska, 14 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

ACTOR 2. Ela Hellerova, 13 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

 PAGE 26

ACTOR 3. Hanus Hachenburg, 14 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

ACTOR 4. Petr Fischl, 15 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

ACTOR 5. Marika Friedmanova, 12 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

ACTOR 6. Frantisek Bass, 14 years old. Perished at Auschwitz.

ACTOR 7. Bedrich Hoffman, 12 years old.

ACTOR 8. Josef Pollack, 14 years old.

ACTOR 9. Dita Valentikova, 13 years old.

ACTOR 10. Nina Ledererova, 14 years old.

ACTOR 11. Eva Steinova, 13 years old.

ACTOR 12. Hana Lissauova, 15 years old.

HONZA. Honza Kosek …

(All exit except RAJA and HONZA)

RAJA. Honza!

HONZA. Raja don’t … don’t turn or move.

RAJA. Honza, where are you?

HONZA. Don’t move. I’m here, on the other side of the wall. Don’t move, don’t – just listen. I have a
number in this transport.

RAJA. No!

HONZA. Please – don’t turn, don’t move. I have a number and I must report.

RAJA. No!

HONZA. But the news is good.

 PAGE 27

RAJA. What do you mean?

HONZA. The war is coming to an end.

RAJA. Honza … no!

HONZA. Things are going bad for the Nazis. Something will happen before long. Raja, please, listen …

RAJA. Honza, where are you? I’m coming with you.

HONZA. You can’t. It’s too late. You must wait here.

RAJA. I cannot. Where are you?

HONZA. No. You must wait … for me.

RAJA. Honza, I cannot live waiting. Please, please, where are you, where are you?

HONZA. I am with you – wherever you are. Listen, Raja …

RAJA. I’m listening.

HONZA. I have something. I never told you – about the poem. I wrote one too, for the contest,
remember?

RAJA. You never handed it in.

HONZA. It was supposed to be about a memory, only it’s about you.

RAJA. You never told me.

HONZA. I’ll leave it here, under the post near the corner. (Places paper) Read it some time, but don’t
laugh. You laughed once at the other poem, remember?

RAJA. I remember.

HONZA. When you read this …

RAJA. I won’t laugh … I won’t. I promise. Honza …

HONZA. Don’t, don’t, don’t come out here. The guards … Just stay there, stay there, and wait. Goodbye
…
 PAGE 28

(HONZA exits)

RAJA. Honza … Honza? … Goodbye …

(RAJA finds the paper)

RAJA. (reading) You sweet remembrance, tell a fairytale

About a girl who’s lost and gone,
(HONZA’s voice joins) Tell, tell about the golden grail
And bid the swallow bring her back to me.
(ADULT RAJA joins) Fly close to her and ask her soft and low
If she thinks of me sometimes with love,
If she is well? Ask too before you go
If I am still her dearest precious dove.
(RAJA drops out) And hurry back, don’t lose your way.
So I can think of other things.
(HONZA drops out) But you were too lovely, perhaps to stay.
I loved you once. Goodbye, my love.

ADULT RAJA. Goodbye. It was the motto of Terezin. It should have been written over the entrance
instead of the lie that greeted newcomers – ‘Work Makes Us Free.’ It was goodbye, not work, that
made us free. (IRENA enters) It was the only thing we knew would never change. Goodbye … goodbye
… goodbye. It freed us all. What was there to fear when you had said goodbye to everyone you ever
loved.

IRENA. Dearest Raja, you know by now that my number – 102866 – was called; when you come to
school today you will see that I have gone. You will have questions, and I will answer them before you
ask. Once I saw an old Bible picture. Satan was about to pierce a saint through with his lance. The saint
was sitting comfortably there, as if it had nothing to do with him. I used to think that the medieval
painters were incapable of presenting feelings like fear, astonishment, or pain – so it looked as if the
saints had shown no interest in their own martyrdom. Now I understand the saints better; what could
they do? I have wrapped up the last of the pictures and poems in my shawl. See that they are buried
with the rest … somewhere. And remember what they mean to all of us. I have nothing else to give you
but this – what you and all the children have made of Terezin – the fields, the flowers – and all the
butterflies … Goodbye …

(IRENA exits)

ADULT RAJA. Irena Synkova, perished at Auschwitz, October 9, 1944 … and I have survived. Mother,
Father, Pavel, Irca, Zdenka, Honza, Irena perished at Auschwitz … and I, Raja Englanderova, returned to
Prague alone … alone.
 PAGE 29

ACTOR 1. (entering) For seven weeks, I’ve lived in here

Penned up inside this ghetto,
But I have found my people here …

IRENA. (entering) Now you are not alone and you must not be afraid.

RENKA. (entering) If we all stand together it makes it so we don’t feel so alone.

ACTOR 2. (entering) The next storm will unfurl our flag

and uproot the rotted trees!

ACTOR 3. (entering) Then we, together with the gusting wind,

Will scale the heights,
and stand in victory on the peaks of cliffs,
our hair blowing freely in the wind.

FATHER. (entering) We will return. You will see. Somehow we will return …

MOTHER. (entering) While we live, we stay together. And perhaps later …

ACTOR 4. (entering) The sun has made a veil of gold

So lovely that my body aches.
Above, the heavens shriek with blue
Convinced I’ve smiled by some mistake.

ACTOR 5. (entering) The world’s abloom and seems to smile.

I want to fly but where, how high?
If in barbed wire, things can bloom
Why couldn’t I? I will not die!

IRCA. (entering) I believe in life.

PAVEL. (entering) I believe in life.

ACTOR 6. (entering) He doesn’t know the world at all

Who stays in his nest and doesn’t go out.
He doesn’t know what the birds know best,
Nor what I want to sing about,
That the world is full of loveliness.
 PAGE 30

ACTOR 7. (entering) When dewdrops sparkle in the grass

And the earth’s aflood with morning light,
A blackbird sings upon a bush
To greet the dawning after night.
Then I know how fine it is to be alive.

ACTOR 8. (entering) Hey, try to open up your heart

To beauty, go to the woods someday
And weave a wreath of memory there.
Then if the ears obscure your way
You’ll know how wonderful it is
to be alive.

RABBI. (entering) As they walk through the Valley of Sorrow, they make it a place of springs.

HONZA. (entering) I am with you – wherever you are.

ACTOR 9. (entering) The last, the very last,

So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing
Against a white stone.

ACTOR 10. (entering) Such, such a yellow

Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to
Kiss the world goodbye.

ACTOR 11. (entering) For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,

Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.

ACTOR 12. (entering) The dandelions call to me

And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

ACTOR 13. (entering) That butterfly was the last one.

Butterflies don’t live here,
In the ghetto.

IRENA. (entering) I have nothing else to give you but this … the fields, the flowers, and all the butterflies
…
 PAGE 31

RAJA. (entering) I am a Jew and will be a Jew forever.

Even if I should die from hunger,
never will I submit.
I will always fight for my people,
on my honor.
I will never be ashamed of them,
I give my word.

I am proud of my people,
how dignified they are.
Even though I am suppressed,
I will always come back to life.

ADULT RAJA. There are stars that twinkle in the sky

although they burned out long ago
and people who bring light to the world
although they are no longer with us
their light shines especially bright
in the darkness of night
they show the way for us all.

RAJA. My name is Raja.

RAJA and ADULT RAJA. I am a Jew. I survived Terezin – not alone …

ADULT RAJA. … and not afraid.