Somewhere there is still a sun

Michael Gruenbaum

Book - 2015

When the Nazis invade Czechoslovakia in 1941, twelve-year-old Michael and his family are deported from Prague to the Terezin concentration camp, where his mother's will and ingenuity keep them from being transported to Auschwitz and certain death.

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Subjects
Published
New York : Aladdin, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing 2015.
Language
English
Main Author
Michael Gruenbaum (author)
Other Authors
Todd Hasak-Lowy, 1969- (author)
Edition
First Aladdin hardcover edition
Physical Description
375 pages, 8 unnumbered pages of plates : illustrations, map ; 22 cm
ISBN
9781442484863
9781442484870
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

HEROISM IS NOT in fashion right now. We prefer our heroes smudged and compromised; it's more comforting, less demanding. Yet two new nonfiction portraits of young people during World War II remind us that bravery, defiance and generosity of spirit are possible even in the direst circumstances. The heroism in Phillip Hoose's "The Boys Who Challenged Hitler" reads almost like a pulp-fiction tale of juvenile swashbuckling. Two groups of teenage Danes, outraged at their government's compliance with the demands of Denmark's Nazi occupiers, set out to sabotage the Germans. Their boyish plots quickly escalated from tagging walls with their anti-swastika symbol to blowing up a railway car filled with airplane wings. They carried out their work by bicycle, often striking during the day because they had to be home before supper. The group called itself the Churchill Club after Britain's prime minister, who had dismissed Denmark as "Hitler's tame canary." They wanted to prove Denmark was fiercer than he reckoned. Eventually, they were captured and imprisoned, but their work had been done: Inspired by these ninth graders, a powerful underground resistance movement formed. Astonishingly, some of the Churchill Club's members still contributed, slipping out of prison nightly to carry out sabotage. Hoose, a National Book Award winner, relies primarily on the testimony of Knud Pedersen, a founding Churchill Club member. Much of the story is told in Pedersen's own words, taken from interviews and a memoir. There is a striking immediacy to the telling. An adult can only admire the intoxicating, foolhardy brashness of the young as they slipped pistols out of Nazis' coat pockets or taught themselves about mortar grenades by disassembling one on the floor of an old monastery. "Ours was a war without fronts," Pedersen explains, "meaning the enemy was 360 degrees around us at all times." Pedersen was a gentile; an entirely different sort of danger surrounded young Michael Gruenbaum, confined to a Prague ghetto and then, for two years, to the "model" concentration camp, Terezin, where he escaped being sent to Auschwitz four times. The novelist Todd Hasak-Lowy has helped Gruenbaum reconstruct memories of this grim coming-of-age in "Somewhere There Is Still a Sun." (An afterword is explicit about the extent of reconstruction.) The book is written in a present tense that locks us in the moment with Gruenbaum as he watches the Nazis' mounting campaign against Czechoslovakia's Jews. Every time Michael thinks things can't get worse, more anti-Semitic strictures are introduced. "The rules just keep coming. We can't buy apples, we can't play the lottery, we can't ride in taxis.... Nothing's too small for them, nothing's too weird." Soon, Michael's father is arrested and murdered. Michael, his mother and his sister are sent to Terezin. Terezin has entered the annals of infamy as Hitler's showpiece, meant to convince international observers that the concentration camps were humane. A propaganda film showcased clean living spaces, calisthenic exercises and a thriving musical and artistic life behind its walls; young Michael played soccer and sang in Hans Krasa's children's opera "Brundibar," applauded by visiting dignitaries. It was an elaborate distraction, however; the Nazis periodically swept the residents off to the death camps. Anchoring Michael's story is a remarkable young man put in charge of his dormitory - Francis Maier, called Franta - who keeps up the spirits of the boys while alerting them to the dangers of acting out. His phenomenal intelligence and empathy are the marks of a forgotten hero. At the same time, Gruenbaum's mother struggles to keep the family alive. (We see the paperwork that laconically assigned the Gruenbaums to Auschwitz, then rescinded the order.) Told in straightforward, even prosaic language, this account will help young readers imagine themselves in the midst of the unimaginable - and will show them how kids much like them managed to survive. M.T. ANDERSON'S new book, "Symphony for the City of the Dead: Dmitri Shostakovich and the Siege of Leningrad," will be published this month.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [September 6, 2015]
Review by Booklist Review

As the Nazis march through Prague, nine-year-old Michael Misha Gruenbaum witnesses a couple jump to their deaths from a balcony and wonders, did they know something the rest of us don't? Misha also can't understand why his father is later taken by SS officers, only to be returned in a coffin. The bulk of this memoir, however, focuses on the two-and-a-half years he, his mother, and older sister spent in the Terezin concentration camp. First-person narration lends an immediacy and innocence to the story, as Misha doesn't always comprehend the significance of events. For instance, he relishes playing soccer with new friends in Terezin, but when these friends are transported east, he only later realizes they had been sent to Auschwitz and the gas chamber. With the help of 20-year-old Franta, a father figure to the boys, Misha learns the strength it takes to survive. The Holocaust's horrors are handled delicately for middle-grade readers but never detract from the truth. Photographs and letters add to the memoir's efficacy and poignancy.--Leeper, Angela Copyright 2015 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Written in first-person present-tense narration, this riveting memoir traces the increasingly appalling events that took place from 1939-1945 in Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia, as seen through the eyes of Gruenbaum. As the book opens, 10-year-old Misha protests his growing awareness of injustice: "Every day is a new, stupid rule and worse food and no soccer." Watching the German army enter Prague, he feels more curiosity than dread until he sees a couple jump to their death holding hands. Miseries ensue: the ghetto, yellow stars, his father's murder, increasing danger, hunger, and humiliation-all leading to the family's arrival in the Terezin concentration camp. There, Misha joins a group of 40 boys who live, work, and play under the stern but loving care of Franta, a young man who calls them the "Nesharim," and demands high moral character: "We will let nothing separate us from our humanity." The ingenuity, love, and defiant courage displayed by Misha, his parents, Franta, and others counteract incessant degradation and terror, creating an inspiring testament to human resilience. Ages 10-14. Agent: (for Gruenbaum) Amy Berkower, Writers House; (for Hasak-Lowy) Daniel Lazar, Writers House. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 5-8-Michael (Misha) Gruenbaum lived an untroubled existence in Prague until the Nazis invaded in 1939, and he documents his life between the ages of nine and 15 in this poignant memoir. Misha's family was sent to the ghetto, where new and oppressive rules were imposed nearly every day. There, his father was arrested and later was reported to have died of kidney failure. Along with his mother and his sister, Marietta, Misha was eventually sent to the concentration camp Terezin, where his experiences ran the gamut, from the exciting and even enjoyable (staging musicals for the Red Cross) to the horrific (standing in freezing weather for hours for a population count). Eventually, transports to "the East" (Auschwitz-Birkenau) began. Young Misha's narration sets this Holocaust memoir apart from others. Initially unaware of the dark implications of the events, Misha adapted to camp life, playing soccer and making new friends, until he could no longer ignore the truth. His innocence contrasts with what readers (and the adults around Misha) know is going on, which creates a foreboding tone. The use of present-tense narration contributes to the urgency of the narration, and Misha's sense of fairness and his unfailing faith that things will improve will resonate with students. Some fictionalizing occurs: coauthor Hasak-Lowy explains in an afterward that he had to "fill in gaps" in the book, such as writing the dialogue. VERDICT An excellent introduction to the Holocaust for those who may not be ready for every grim detail.-Katherine Koenig, The Ellis School, PA © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Horn Book Review

With Todd Hasak-Lowy. In this heavily fictionalized memoir, Holocaust survivor Gruenbaum recounts his experience as a young boy living in Prague's Terezin concentration camp. Tight, present-tense first-person narration adds an unusual sense of immediacy to this historical story but results in a voice that sometimes feels too modern and shallow. However, Michael's youthful perspective may appeal to younger readers. (c) Copyright 2016. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

Holocaust survivor Gruenbaum has a story to tell.From prewar childhood in Prague to Terezin (and participation in its infamous performances of Brundibar) and liberation by the Red Army, a first-person narration relates Gruenbaum's story; although his father perished, remarkably, he, his mother, and his sister survived together. In an introduction, Gruenbaum describes his story's path to publication some 70 years after the end of the war. After many rejections of his original, picture-book manuscript, his story was picked up with the suggestion that his experiences be retold by a professional writer in a much longer book. What follows is Hasak-Lowy's re-creation of Gruenbaum's experiences, told in a childlike first person and featuring novelistic flourishes such as extensive, "recreated" dialogue. In a lengthy afterword, Hasak-Lowy describes his process, which included a trip to Prague and Terezin and consultation with Gruenbaum. In writing, he "elaborate[ed] on the fragments of [Gruenbaum's] memories" by "fill[ing] in gaps on a very regular basis," and "suppl[ied] large parts" of the personalities and actions of the characters "in order to bring the scenes with them to life." Gruenbaum is "very pleased with the results," but moving though it is, the book simply does not meet the definition of nonfiction, which the label "memoir" implies.As historical fiction, this offering is fine, but it is not nonfiction by any stretch of the imagination. (Historical fiction. 10-14) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Somewhere There Is Still a Sun March 11, 1939 MY RECORD IS FIFTEEN. "Why are you rushing, Misha?" Father has been asking ever since we left our apartment. "Slow down," he kept telling me, nearly laughing, while we were walking along the river. The Vltava. The best river in the world. He didn't know that I was warming up, getting ready. Because today is the day; I can feel it. Father likes to take his time. "A person isn't supposed to rush on Shabbat," he's reminded me about five times already. But I can't blame him. He works so hard all week. I mean, he's barely even around most of the time. Some nights he doesn't come home at all. And he's going to London tomorrow, because of his work. I hate it when he's gone, but I guess when you're one of the lawyers for the richest family in Prague you do what they say. But I have a job too. To break my record. Today. We're almost at the bridge. The Cechuv. Seagulls are chasing each other along the river, playing their secret games. The castle pokes up at the sky like usual, high above everything. Maybe we can go up there once he gets back from his trip. See the changing of the guards and look at the city down below. I'll ask Father when he's not so annoyed with me. We turn off the quay and onto the bridge, busy with people and cars. Excellent. Here comes Pavel Goren, our doctor. Who just so happens to have the biggest belly of any doctor anywhere. But why is he walking away from the Old-New Synagogue? Who cares, this is perfect. He'll distract father. "Shabbat shalom, Pavel," my father says. "Hello, Karl," Pavel says, and ruffles my hair, his stomach brushing against my ear. "Tell me something, Misha, have you been growing again?" But I don't answer. Because the bridge is perfect right now. Old men and their canes. Girls chattering with their friends. A couple led by their dog. "It's Madga; she's ill," Pavel tells my father. "Every year in March, it's the same thing." I guess I'm supposed to care, but I have more important things to worry about. Plus, I'm sure of it, in a moment they'll be talking about Germany and Hitler and the Nazis, which is all any adult seems to talk about these days. So boring. Three boys pass us. Bigger than me, but so what? I'm off. One of the boys says, "The next World Cup is ours. You'll see." "No way," the tallest says. "Brazil will beat us. Again." "Are you crazy?" the third boy says. "Oldrich is only getting better." "You're both idiots," says the tall one. They stop to argue, pointing their fingers at each other. Fine with me. I pass them. One, two, three. Next is an old man, shuffling along slowly. No problem. Four. And two women, one of them pushing a stroller. Unfortunately, babies don't count, but still. Five, six. Someday this will be an Olympic event. At least it should be. Prague will host the Olympics, and I'll be a national hero. Gruenbaum's about to set a new mark! He's passing the German. Thirty-seven! Thirty-seven people passed on a single bridge! A new Olympic record! But okay, I've got to focus. And no running allowed. If you run and they catch you, you're disqualified. Here's a family. Like ours. A boy and his sister. She looks about four years older than him, too, just like with us. I wonder if she tells him to stop acting like a baby all the time too. Doesn't matter, they're tossing bits of bread out to the seagulls. Seven, eight, nine, ten. Can't get distracted in the middle. Not by that boat sliding underneath. And not by the urge to turn back to see the old castle, even though it looks best from this spot. Because it's got to be the biggest castle anywhere. I swear, sometimes its four steeples--especially the tallest one at the top of the cathedral--they disappear right into the clouds. "Michael Gruenbaum!" my father screams at me. "What are you doing?" I pretend I didn't hear him. He won't be that mad; my father almost never gets that mad. Another reason he's the best dad anywhere. Here's a couple, holding hands. Piece of cake. Eleven, twelve. Four more and it's a record. A woman walking her dog. Thirteen. Two men arguing in German. Walking fast, as if they know, as if they were sent here to discourage our nation's best bet. But it won't be so easy, gentlemen. My legs might be short, but my feet are quick. Fourteen, fifteen! I've tied my record. Only there's just one problem. Oh no. There's no one left. And the end of the bridge, fast approaching, is barely fifty feet away. Oh well, a tie is still impressive. But what's this? Someone passing me! A tall man, in shorts. Mother would say it's much too cold for shorts. And I have to agree, not that I'd say so. Gym shoes on his feet. Speeds past me. The bulge of a soccer ball in a bag on his back. I hear him huffing and see the sweat on his neck shining in the sunlight. He must be a pro, or will be someday. Probably knows Antonin Puc personally. A striker if I had to guess. But so what? Because I, Misha Gruenbaum (my parents only call me "Michael" when I'm in trouble), will one day represent Czechoslovakia in the Pass People on the Bridge event at the Olympics. It'll be a sport by 1948 or 1952, and by then I'll be in my prime. So I begin to sprint, because here's a little known rule only the most dedicated competitors know: If someone else is running, you can run to pass them. That's allowed. Father won't be happy, me running like this in my clothes for synagogue. But so what? Someday, when the medal is hanging in our living room, when I'm a national hero, he'll understand it was all worth it. Twenty feet to go. The man in the shorts turns his head, puzzled. Grins. Picks up his pace. But he's no match for a sprinter like Gruenbaum. I break the finish line a moment before him! The crowd goes wild! The national anthem plays! Sixteen! A new record! I did it!!! Sixteen!!! "Misha! Misha!" I turn and hurry back to Father. Wipe the sweat off on the inside of my sleeves so he won't see. Try to get my breath back to normal. "Look at the castle," I tell him. Because maybe that will distract him. "Misha," he says, concerned. "You're only eight years old. You can't just run off like that. I couldn't even--" "Can we go?" I ask, pointing past his shoulder. "Go? What are you--" "To the castle." Father opens his mouth, like he's about to say something. "The first Sunday after you get back, from London. Please." He puts his tallit bag under his left arm and turns toward the castle. It worked; I can see it in his eyes. He forgets about everything. Maybe even those stupid Nazis he and the rest of the adults won't shut up about. "Sure," he says quietly, still staring across the river. "I don't see why not." He puts his arm around me, and we continue along the bridge toward the synagogue. "So long as it doesn't rain." My dad's like that. Always worrying a bit. As if something is always about to go wrong. But if he knew about my new record, he'd realize that things are only going to get better. Because sometimes I can just tell. Excerpted from Somewhere There Is Still a Sun: A Memoir of the Holocaust by Michael Gruenbaum All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.