I stopped and thought about what Poppy would have wanted me to do to the man who’d ordered his death. I hadn’t lost my courage. I just couldn’t kill anyone.
Pulling away the fueled cord leading to the propane tanks, I turned around and ran outside until the asphalt became a muddy path, leading through the pine woods. I eventually arrived, out of breath, at the riverbank where Norbert, David, and Frau Schmidt were waiting for me.
Pavel had given Norbert six large loaves of freshly baked black bread, some cheese, fruit, and bottles of water.
“Max, I’ll see you after the war,” Norbert said, choking up as he waved to us. “Godspeed, boys!”
Frau Schmidt, with a softness I had not heard in her before, said, “I’ll just say a few words, and leave it at that. Auf wiedersehen, Max … You too, David. Goodbye, old friend.”
I embraced her and she tensed up, but I held tight. I didn’t have a mother or a father, but I still had family. I felt her relax and return my affection. “Thank you. For everything.”
Then she gave David a big, long hug.
We didn’t linger—we couldn’t—and quickly launched the raft into the water. David and I were carried from the shore.
ON BOARD THE SS MAX
Willow trees formed corridors, and curtains of oaks and lindens along the river hid the landscape beyond. We were an hour downstream, with the sun shining down in all its glorious radiance and the wind whispering its March sadness across the pines, when I clenched my fist by my side and prayed to my Jewish God for forgiveness for even thinking about taking another life. At that very moment, I heard an explosion in the distance, and a blue plume of smoke floated upward over the treetops. David raised his eyebrows and I shrugged. I was sure that I’d defused everything.
After a moment’s hesitation, I told David about my explosive device and how I’d wanted to surprise Major Rahm with the hottest bath of his life, to leave a personal thank-you from the son of Viktor Mueller.
“With my help, he was going to blow himself to smithereens, David! But I couldn’t go through with it. I removed the fuse.”
“Well, you’re learning that there might just be a higher power after all, working in strange and mysterious ways. You did the right thing, Max.” He almost managed a grin. “If you had, though, it would have been a hell of a story for Vedem!”
A rippling current caught the raft, following the banks of the Ohře, a narrow stretch of water. I had memorized the route: even against swirling unpredictable currents, the river gave way and cooperated, taking the raft twenty kilometers toward the Elbe, which joined the Vltava, sometimes called the Moldau, leading to Prague, where it would become a stretch of riptides with treacherous waters forming when the two rivers came together.
Scoping my surroundings, ready for anything, my pulse was racing, and David was almost jumping out of his skin. But we were moving, every second taking us farther from the camp and closer to Prague. We were heading for safety. We were heading home.
There was a patch of thick fog, but I kept my confidence, not allowing myself to think that I might not be able to find my way.
Norbert had provided essential tools for navigation: plenty of rope, two lanterns, a rudder that could be removed and refitted to the stern at will, paddles fashioned from broomsticks, and a clever platform with wheels, should we need to lift the raft to get around the locks.
Early afternoon had passed, and we were now well on our way. The air was warm, the spring rains had come and gone, the ice on the river had melted, and the countryside was lush and green.
We allowed ourselves to relax a little after securing the canvas tent to protect us from rain and the evening chill. The river made light swishing sounds as I checked the construction of the raft. Everything was in order. The sun broke through as the craft slipped into a part of the river that was quiet, its path following wide, gentle curves. David improvised a pole, a smart bit of deception, giving the appearance that he was fishing.
Villagers waved from the shore and returned our greetings as we continued rippling through a rural countryside spaced with farmhouses. We were occasionally interrupted by a squadron of planes humming overhead. So far up in the sky, we could see a formation of eagles migrating to Germany to drop bombs. About an hour later, the planes were once more overhead, returning to their home base in formation.
“This war will be over soon, David. We had to leave. I know that in my heart. God, it was hard, but I’m going to go back to get Sophie and Hans.”
“I’ll go with you, Max.”
“We’ve been together a long time. I can’t imagine it being any other way.”
“We’ll always be looking back.”
“I know we’ve done something, and that counts in the great scheme.”
“We’ve been through so much together. A lot has happened.”
“What has happened to us? We grew up.”
LEAVING AND RETURNING
After folding our straw-filled sleeping bags into makeshift chairs, I took out my chart and confirmed we were on course. Falling just off his shoulders, David’s maroon scarf flapped in the late afternoon breeze like a windsock indicating our direction.
Floating swiftly, making good time, we saw no soldiers. Familiar landscapes seemed to reappear every few kilometers, the same scenes, something Norbert would have appreciated. Red and yellow houses, carpets of lawn with grazing livestock searching for fresh spring grass. Occasionally, a swan or a trail of dabbling ducks crossed our wake.
“If I had known this was going to be so pleasant, I would have set sail with you a long time ago,” David said lightly.
“Then who would have played Brundibár?”
David yawned and pulled a straw hat down over his face, catching the last few rays of sun bouncing off the water.
“Where did you get the Panama?” I asked.
“I helped stimulate the camp’s economy and bought it during the Red Cross visit at the shop on Potemkin Day.”
“It’s pretty snappy. Poppy would’ve loved it.”
Thinking about him triggered a sudden bottomless feeling, but I tried to push it aside. I was a sailor heading home, making good progress, fulfilling my father’s last wishes. I was on another assignment, doing what I should be doing, my best friend at my side. We were Tom and Huck, the wind and tide were with us, and all was set fair.
In the spring, light lasted late into the day, so I decided we would sail until dark, till almost nine o’clock. We found a mooring on a riverbank. Landing near a patch of grass, David and I went ashore, pulling the raft behind. We removed our sleeping bags, provisions, and lantern, and lit a small campfire with some twigs and dry driftwood.
After a supper of black bread, cheese, and fruit, we were full and content. All the stress and sadness left me for a moment, and overhead there was a sky full of stars shining down on me. The air was sweet, life was good, and the night welcoming. I took out my notebook and wrote.
Leaving and returning. I wondered, since I’d been away for so long, would everything be the same when I returned? Would there be any familiar faces to open the door? I wrote of hellos and goodbyes, and how soon I’d be back to those familiar things that I might never have left at all.
“What are you doing, Max?”
“Just scribbling a few thoughts.”
“You really are a reporter, Max. That’s what we do. Write. We do it all the time. We can’t stop.”
They were more than a few notes. I was a Chinese poet, with no verses memorized. I could make up my own and simply recite that the rains were lighter, the music softer, the river stronger, the days brighter, the nights shorter, and my dreams nearer. Under distant stars I would give each a name: Poppy, Sophie, and Hans. That was all I had to write. It was not scribbling at all. They were my names too. They were my identity.
“How did you think of this plan, Max. How did you
get the idea?”
David waited for an answer as I washed my face in a cool stream leading into the river. “I think you’ll appreciate this,” I said, taking out my treasured Twain.
David smiled when he saw the cover. “Good ol’ Huck!”
I turned a few more pages until I found the right passage.
“We catched fish and talked … it was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn’t ever feel like talking loud.”
I smiled at David. “It’s smart to be well-read.”
“Do you think we’ll get to America someday?” David asked, sounding melancholy. “A free world? A safe world?”
“We’re on the Mississippi now. Don’t you feel like Huck and Tom, sitting around a campfire?”
David paused. “I think I do.” He settled into his sleeping bag. “Well, good night, Huck.”
I finally had a moment to open the blue envelope Sophie had given me. Inside was a drawing one of the kids had sketched in Sarah Markova’s improvised classroom. It was a watercolor of Sophie and me under an umbrella.
What could I say? Sophie, my wonderful Sophie. The longing for her was overwhelming and the image blurred in front of my eyes. It was if I had left part of myself behind. I wondered if I would ever get it back. I put the sketch away, carefully securing it in a safe place in my jacket. I turned onto my back. Starring at the constellations far away, I thought of everyone that I had ever loved. A million stars crowded the sky, arching over some tall pine trees and sheltering me. The last thing I remembered were fireflies, like luminous raindrops, flickering in the darkness.
I wasn’t sure if it was the morning light or the voice that woke me.
“Hello, you,” she said. I saw a girl with braided blond hair; she must have been about twelve or so, wearing a white apron embroidered with multicolored flowers. Was I dreaming or was this Becky Thatcher out of the pages of Mark Twain?
“Where are you from?”
David sat up, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Hello to you too.”
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“We’re just camping out, fishing,” I replied.
“Catch any?”
“Not yet. My name is Max. Meet Peter the fisherman.”
David glared at me.
“Hello, Peter the fisherman. My name is Julia,” she said brightly, “and if you both would like to wash and get something to eat, I live just up the hill.”
“Uh, no,” we both said quickly.
She gave a small pout. “But thanks,” I said.
We began packing up our stuff while Julia watched, sitting cross-legged in the grass. From behind her, someone in a white tunic appeared, a tall man with long, flowing, gray hair. He was a vision, sunlight silhouetting him.
“You boys fishing?” he asked in a soft, melodious voice.
“Yes, well, trying to catch something,” David said, hurrying to get everything back onto the raft.
“If you head farther downstream, you’ll have better luck.”
We need plenty of that.
“Father, can we invite Max and Peter up to the house? They might enjoy a good meal …”
“Yes, boys, please come with us. You can’t disappoint my daughter. We get so few young fishermen here.”
He had a glint in his eye.
“Father!” Julia blushed, jumped up, and ran off along a path.
“Sure, we could, um, have a cup of tea.”
Together, David and I gave a small shrug. It could easily be a trap, but what were we supposed to do?
We followed the path Julia had taken and soon reached a house. Beyond it was a church—a small, simple, white-wooden structure with large, polished oak doors and a golden steeple.
“We should first give thanks,” said the man, who had introduced himself on the walk as Alexandr. “We’re happy to welcome you,” he said, “just in time for our morning service.”
Then it occurred to me it was Sunday morning. And that our new friend was dressed in white. I smacked my forehead. Alexandr was a preacher. He certainly had his hands full with our escape to the Promised Land.
David and I followed him into the church where a small congregation was waiting for him, singing vigorously. I wasn’t sure if it was Anglican or Catholic, and out of respect, I made the sign of the cross, touching my head, and then my heart. David, watching me closely, followed my lead.
“The other way, David,” I whispered. “Left side first.”
We were introduced as fishermen. Then Pastor Alexandr, robust and imposing, delivered his sermon. David and I listened respectfully.
“When Jesus first began to call his disciples, two of them were fishermen. Jesus knew the hearts of everyone; he knew fishermen spread the gospel. Let’s turn to Luke 5:4–6. When Jesus first met Peter, he had been out all night fishing, but had caught nothing. Jesus tested his faith. He wanted to show Peter that all things are possible with God. As God’s children, we are called to become fishermen of faith. God uses us to spread the Gospel, spread the good news.”
“Just like Vedem, David,” I whispered, “spread the news.”
“If we make it, promise me, Max, we’ll write about this benison someday.”
Benison. Great word. I liked it.
Alexandr took the fitting stance in prayer, lifting his hands upward, and implored, “Cast the net upon the waters and ye shall find.”
The congregation murmured, “Praise God.”
I suspected David had never been in a church, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at our predicament. Did the congregation really believe we were fishermen? I didn’t think so. But we were treated with kindness, and if blessings existed, this was one.
After the service, we went to Julia’s home.
“Father has to say goodbye to the congregation, but he’ll join us later,” Julia said, showing us around the house. “If you want to freshen up, there’s a bathroom upstairs.”
I took advantage of the opportunity, taking a long shower; as I washed, I saw pine treetops out the window.
I had not felt so fresh in a while, and after drying off with a fluffy towel, dressed and went down to Sunday lunch. David had already done the same, and was talking to Julia’s grandmother, Marta.
I joined in the conversation and learned that Grandma Marta was from Budapest. She had prepared an old family recipe of paprika-laced roasted chicken, vegetable goulash with peas and potatoes, and for dessert, something I had never had before, a delicious sponge cake called dobos torta. They were farmers, raising livestock, growing vegetables. “Eat, child, eat!” Grandma Marta urged. And we did.
David noticed a violin case on a table and admired it.
“Do you play?” Julia asked.
“I haven’t for a time.”
“He plays quite well,” I happily announced.
“Would you please play something for us?” Julia asked.
“Yes, play for us, Peter,” I said.
I didn’t mind putting David on the spot; after all, it was a way to return their hospitality in some small measure.
To my delight, David picked up the violin with a self-conscious flourish. He tuned the instrument, and, after placing a white napkin under his chin, vigorously played Brahms’s “Hungarian Dance no. 6.” Julia did a folk dance and Grandma Marta gleefully clapped her hands. David played so well that Marta urged him to continue, so he surpassed himself with Brahms’s “Hungarian Dance no. 7.”
“Where did you learn those compositions?” I asked when he finished with a dramatic bow.
“My teacher must have been a gypsy. ‘Number 6’ was his most popular piece.”
Gravel crunched outside. I glanced out the window and saw a German staff car had pulled into the driveway in front of the church. I couldn’t see them cl
early, but could make out a few officers talking among themselves. I didn’t think they’d come to pray. When the pounding on the door of the chapel became louder, Aleksandr stepped outside.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I wasn’t going to stay around to find out. Grabbing David’s hand, I jerked him up from his chair.
“Thank you all so much, but we really have to go. You know, this time of the day is the best for fishing.”
David nodded and grabbed another piece of sponge cake from the table as I pulled him out the back door. Julia ran after us.
“Wait!” she cried.
“Thank you for everything, Julia,” I called back over my shoulder. “Goodbye!”
We arrived at the raft, jumped aboard, and pushed off onto the water.
“Hope you catch a lot of fish!” Julia called to us as we floated from the shore and sailed away, still waving as we negotiated the next turn on the river.
“That was close,” David remarked quietly. “But we were lucky. We meet people along the way and there must be reasons. I wonder if they were sent by God.”
“Maybe Poppy is upstairs conducting the show.”
David started to enter the makeshift cabin, but abruptly stopped.
We were just a few hundred yards down the river, as David quietly sidled up to me and whispered, “Be careful.”
“What’s going on?”
“We have a passenger, there’s someone or something inside the canvas. I saw it moving.”
I caught my breath? A stowaway. It couldn’t be possible.
“It moved again.” David pointed.
He was right. “Who is it?”
“I don’t feel good about this.”
The cover of the tent was thrown open, and the man in the black overcoat loomed over me pointing a gun. When had he gotten on the raft?
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