Secretly, she liked the idea. It appealed to her idealism, her desire to be of use, and she knew by her very presence here at this time that her grandmother was connected in ways she could barely imagine. It was a serious assignment, the true nature of which would only emerge if she chose to accept Churchill’s invitation. She smiled briefly as she considered this, as if it was possible that she could turn this offer down. She thought about Hans. What would he think of this? Would he ever know?
“On my way to Czechoslovakia, I’ll be stopping off at a conference in France, and if I gather any useful information, I’ll cable you.”
Churchill smiled. “I take it you accept the assignment. I know about the meeting, one of our undersecretaries will be there. But I need more. We’ll need someone in Prague, to work with Pierre Burger. And we need a way to report to the nation, without revealing our sources.”
“Pierre Burger?”
“Your contact. An essential man, with important connections. Find him, we need inside operatives.”
In a little over twenty-four hours Anna’s world had been turned upside down. Before she left, she posted a dispatch to The Observer. Her “cover” as Churchill put it. She couldn’t know where it would all end for her, for Hans, for Europe. But she knew one thing for sure: she was on her way to Prague.
The Observer
July 23, 1939
KINDERTRANSPORT
Last night, there was a major House of Commons debate on refugees here in England. The home secretary, Sir Samuel Hoare, met a large delegation, the Refugee Children’s Movement (RCM), dedicated to the care of children in Germany and what might be occupied Europe. These agencies promised to fund the operation and to prevent the refugees from becoming a financial burden on British citizens. Each child will have a financial guarantee to ensure their eventual return to Germany.
Representatives have been dispatched to Germany and Austria to organize the operation. The Observer, together with the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) Home Service, appealed for foster homes, bringing more than a thousand offers. RCM volunteers are visiting prospective homes to make sure that each child will be placed in a clean, respectable, supportive atmosphere and that the expected and understandable stress and anxiety are well addressed. Nicholas Winton, a stockbroker of German-Jewish origin, heads one of the groups financing the operation. As of this writing, he has found homes for 669 children, many of whose parents have disappeared. He has also built a network in Germany through private connections.
The children will travel with a document of identity issued by His Majesty’s government and will be admitted to the United Kingdom for educational purposes under the care and authority of the International Aid Committee for Children, an organization with the Queen’s patronage. The document requires no visa or personal particulars. Upon arrival in Great Britain, children without prearranged families will be sheltered at Dovercourt and Pakefield summer holiday camps. Britain welcomes these children with open arms and open hearts. One is reminded of the text from the book of Jewish law, To save one life is to save the world.
The international conference called by United States President Franklin Roosevelt was intended to offer refuge to European Jews, but instead, with a twist of irony, it appeared the conference would not help after all. There in Évian, delegates from thirty-two countries and representatives from thirty-nine private relief agencies met at the Hotel Royal in the French resort on Lake Geneva, near the Swiss border. Prior to the conference, Roosevelt had made it clear that “no country would be expected to receive a greater number of immigrants than is permitted by their existing regulations.” And no mention about the well-being of children. Taking advantage of Roosevelt’s qualification, the national delegates, one after another, expressed sympathy for Jewish refugees, while making excuses as to why their borders could not be opened.
Anna learned that what was conceived as a means of bringing at least some much-needed relief to an emerging and deepening crisis ended in not one viable solution, but instead a serious impasse. After all the promise of international cooperation, the Évian Conference was offering no relief for Jewish refugees, and by legitimatizing the Nazi claim that “nobody wants them,” she felt that in time it would be a critical turning point in Nazi-Jewish relations. The conference revealed the centerpiece of Nazi Germany’s anti-Jewish policy, and it was clear another solution for the Reich’s “Jewish Problem” would eventually surface.
She was offended by such cavalier disregard for humanity, and disappointed, but felt oddly inspired and ever more engaged in her new role, seeing how urgent the work was, whatever it might turn out to be. Next stop, Prague.
RETURN TO PRAGUE
When Hans returned from London, he couldn’t stop grinning. He was secretive about his visit, not even mentioning how the concert went. It was so unlike him, a man who was almost as theatrical as Poppy when it came to re-creating moments of triumph or disaster. Instead he would sit at the piano, saying little, but playing a new piece over and over, as if his fingers were glued to the keys.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Hmmm?”
“The name of your new tune.”
“I don’t have a name for it yet.”
“What’s her name?”
“What makes you think she has a name?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Anna.”
“Who’s Anna?”
I knew he had met someone he liked. I was finally getting the hang of this romance thing.
“According to my intuition, she’ll be visiting us soon in Prague?”
“How do you know that?”
“A hunch. Inspiration. Maybe?”
Inspiration was on my mind. It was time for a letter.
Dear Sophie,
After you left, I thought you had gone away forever. I hope not. I don’t understand feelings the way I understand music, they are all sloshed up inside me. Have you arrived safely at your new home, and how is your mama feeling? I had such a wonderful time with you. I want to come and visit you when you are settled in your new village. When I need to cheer myself up, I play our day together as if it were a movie.
Max
I kept Sophie in my thoughts for the rest of the night and fell asleep looking at her photograph. It was no longer in sepia. I saw the colors deep within it, and the picture, like Sophie herself, had come gloriously to life.
Poppy jumped up from the table and thrust his right index finger into the air after tasting a new concoction of fruit juice made from oranges, lemons, and apples. He was always fizzing with life, with enthusiasm, creating something, bringing his imagination into existence with boundless energy. He had an irrepressible life force whether it was in the kitchen, on a walk, at the piano, or waving his baton in front of an orchestra.
“To life! Now, get your books and we’ll walk to school.”
I went to my room, trying to remember where I’d put Sophie’s letters. I searched my pine desk, tossing books onto the floor. No luck. I searched behind the old spinet that Poppy had bought for my mother, to see if they had fallen behind it. Nothing. Finally, I looked under my large down comforter, and there they were, right beside my wooden model sailboat. I grabbed them and my books, making sure to snatch my brass army trumpet off the wall, the one with a maroon-and-blue braided rope. But there was a more important thing to do before our musical walk to school.
“Poppy, would you post my letter to Sophie? She’s in a place called Terezín.”
“Sure, Max.” He smiled at me. “I’m curious. Who is she? Are you keeping secrets?”
Hard to keep anything from Poppy.
“We’ve been writing. We’re pen pals, although I haven’t heard anything from her for a while. She came to visit one day when you were away working all day. She and her mother had to leave Austria. They couldn’t stay there any longer.”
“Yes, but does it make a difference?”
“Of course not,” he muttered, and then definitively: “Of course not!” And with that, he gave an expansive wave. “Follow me, Max. We’re off to school!”
Poppy didn’t say anything more about Sophie, but I was sure Hans must have told him something.
The German School was just a short tram ride away, about thirty blocks, but if the weather was particularly nice, we walked, picking up classmates along the way. Today, the Great Viktor Mueller was improvising a march.
A classmate led our single file proudly, with the colors of Czechoslovakia, a fluttering standard flying red and white with a blue triangle.
“Let’s walk smartly, Max. I’d like to hear the sound of your trumpet.”
I blew as hard as I could.
“Good morning, Marek, did you bring your drum?”
“Yes, Conductor Mueller,” he called, responding with a boom-de-boom.
“No skipping, boys, keep in step.”
At the tram crossing, he led the ever-growing band with military precision. “Ah, Vaclav, join the ranks, hope you have your clarinet with you.”
“All warmed up with a new reed, Maestro.”
A block later: “Jan Leopold, your tuba ready today?”
“Ready to play, Herr Conductor Mueller!”
At the corner: “It’s Sarah, I believe? We can always use another flute.”
David joined us. When we weren’t playing football, or hiking through snowstorms together, David played the violin better than anyone I knew. Poppy called him a prodigy. He could hear a score once and perform it perfectly. David was a Topper even when it came to music. The only thing he may have loved more than news and books was a song.
“Welcome, David! Fiddle on, dear man!”
With a rat-a-tat, a boom-boom-boom, and a couple of tra-las thrown in, the rank and file were led in their joyous procession by Drum Major Viktor Mueller. We arrived at school and followed Poppy as he marched us in and up the stairs and along the first-floor corridor.
Teachers opened their doors to see what all the noise was, and Poppy tipped his hat with a nod to each of them.
“Hello, and top of the morning to you!” He was using an Irish accent today.
I looked over at David. He was busily jotting something down on a small pad, laughing to himself as he scrawled his notes. I anticipated an article in the school newspaper, “Morning Music Procession Causes Commotion and Consternation.” David took his job as editor very seriously. Nothing escaped report.
As we settled down at our desks and got out our books, David turned to me. “I’ve been thinking about it lately—why don’t you join the paper, Max? You express yourself better than anyone I know, and I can always use a good man.”
“What about keeping out the riffraff?”
“I’m the editor. I can make an exception for certain riffraff.”
“Thanks, David, but I’m behind, studying for exams and practicing piano. And somehow I think your newspaper is going to land you in trouble.”
In the last several issues, David had reprinted articles about the political situation in Berlin. One was “Burning Books in Berlin,” another “The Reichstag Fire,” and one about Mein Kampf, “Hitler’s Blueprint of Destruction.” His editorials were beyond my worldview, and his tutor strongly advised him to tone it down. We went to a German school, and although he was admired for his Czech patriotism, some opinions were bound to get him in hot water eventually.
As for me, I didn’t think that Sophie wanted a rabble-rouser as a pen pal. Or a boyfriend.
We were on our way to the station. Most times we walked, but on this occasion Poppy had decided to order a driver. David was waiting for us in front of his house a few minutes later.
The car crept toward the opera house. I strained to hear the muffled yells and shouts along the route, until the source became obvious: People were protesting, waving placards that read sudeten german party while others were attacking them. Two lines of people screamed insults at each other—I felt as if we had suddenly found ourselves in a newsreel. Men and women were pushing against our car, pressed together, and I thought at any minute we would be compressed into a can of sardines. There was shouting and fighting, and I felt uneasy, even a little frightened. The crowd could pounce on us at any minute. There was a sense that news, the things that made the paper, happened somewhere else. But here I could feel that we had drifted right into the middle of a story. We were separated from what was going on by the thickness of the glass in the car’s windows.
A man cried out to us, “Please help me,” and Poppy managed to open the car’s door and with great effort push away a group who were kicking and punching him. He was hurt. It was shocking and ugly. Poppy helped the man up. He was bruised and defeated. The crowd spat on him as blood pooled on the street. A woman screamed. Children cried. My heart was beating fast. I looked over at Poppy who seemed calm and in control.
“Move over, Max,” Poppy called as he pulled the man into the cab. On the way to the hospital, Poppy took out his handkerchief and wiped the man’s face as he held him in his arms. At that moment, as we continued our slow journey in a shared, shocked silence, I realized how brave my father was. We didn’t pick up any sheet music that day, but I learned a bit about courage. The image of the mob burned itself into my mind. I thought I should have helped, too, and felt guilty that I hadn’t. There was no excuse. That failure to act stayed with me a long time. In fact, it never left me. From that moment on I understood that you could never just turn away from reality. You had to face it, to report it, help reshape it. And that is something David did too. He reported the truth and at that moment I wondered if I could do the same.
As we left the crowd, David pointed to a man in a black overcoat keeping a ledger. He seemed to stand out from the rest—a faceless man hidden in shadows, but there was something about him that was unmistakably dangerous. It was as if the protest was in color and this man was in black and white.
Looking back in the rear window, the Czech police dispersed the protesters, the streets were cleared, and things were calm again, as if a storm had passed. But we had seen the clouds, they were dark and violent, and suddenly, however brave my father was and I had vowed to become, I felt a little less safe in the world.
A ROOM WITH A VIEW
Poppy clutched a bouquet of flowers as a train marked 1012 from Switzerland steamed into the station.
A lady walked toward Hans, unmistakably the woman that he had been talking about. This was Anna.
While Anna was fluent in German, Hans simply refused to speak the language anymore. Fortunately, our informal reception committee all spoke English reasonably well—it was part of our school curriculum.
“I have always wished to meet a lovely English lady. At your command, your service, your every wish.” Viktor bowed. “I am your guide.” He presented Anna with the flowers and she beamed.
Then Poppy produced a red-banded porter’s hat that I had not seen before and bowed again before placing it on his head. “Madam, I officially welcome you to Prague. I’m here to assist you. These three nincompoops do not know the city … an inadequate welcoming committee for a famous journalist. In fact, they lose their way most of the time. Your baggage, madam?” Nodding, her brilliant smile emerged once more. I was keen to know her better. David was so excited he forgot to scribble anything in his notebook. Hans stood to one side, looking handsome and happy.
Poppy the Porter led us out of the station; he waved his hand, announcing, “Prague has eighty-three churches, and we will visit them all. We make music here too. You will notice a newly varnished violin hanging in the window of a carriage house. Listen to the sounds of a quartet drifting from a room in Old Town. We even write songs to those we love.” He paused looking at Hans. “Prague is alive with music
!”
“Before we do so,” Hans politely interrupted, “Anna, I’ve booked a room for you at the Europa, but I have a large guest house on my property with a great deal of privacy, overlooking one of the churches our ‘guide’ mentioned, a beautiful view, and I’d be very pleased if you would stay.”
Viktor countered, “If I may, madam, I am familiar with the best accommodations in the city … stay at the Europa.”
“It’s a difficult decision; what do you think?” Anna asked me.
“I would unquestionably stay at Hans’s. The Europa is very nice, but the guest house, I’ve stayed there many times—it’s very private and I see no reason why it would not be proper.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We want you nearby, and besides, Hans is sometimes lonely. And he has the best cook in town.”
I could tell by the look on her face that Anna didn’t believe that Hans Krása could ever be lonely. Sensitive and self-sufficient to be sure, but lonely? I was projecting my own loneliness.
Anna accepted the gracious offer, knowing that Hans was a portrait of a gentleman.
Viktor the Guide exclaimed, “Then it is settled; we’re off to the Grand Hotel Krása!”
The Grand Hotel Krása was a five-star affair, with a living room so spacious it could have been a ballroom. Outside were well-attended gardens, where Hans often collected his thoughts. They were pleasant places to spend an hour or two each day, with colorful flowers matching the seasons. His home had originally been built as the French consulate, until an embassy was needed, and it was expanded into a larger residence with a park, overlooking all Malá Strana, with a sweeping view of the red rooftops leading to the river. It belonged to the Krása family, having been purchased by Hans’s grandfather, and had rich wooden floors, wide French windows, and, at its center, a drawing room with two polished grand pianos, where I took my lessons and spent some of the best times I can remember. I knew that Anna would love it as much as Sophie and Edith had. Perhaps even more.
While the Music Played Page 7