The Doctor Dines in Prague

by Robin Hathaway

  He carefully measured two cups of flour, one cup of sugar, and one and a half cups of water into the bowl. While Marie stirred this concoction, he searched for a skillet. He found one, but nothing to grease it with. How would he keep the pancakes from sticking? He solved this by making one giant pancake and sliding the spatula under it every few seconds. When it was done on one side—to Marie’s delight—he flipped it in the air. When it was brown on both sides, Fenimore cut the pancake, serving each of them half. Marie took a bite and made a face. Fenimore also grimaced. He grabbed the jar of crystallized honey from the cabinet and spread a gob on each half. A far cry from maple syrup, but “beggars can’t be choosers,” as his grandmother used to say. Fenimore could only manage to eat two-thirds of his. Marie ate all of hers. She still must have been starving.

  Once the dishes were done (all two of them), it was only nine o’clock. Three long days stretched before him until it was time to take Marie to the airport. How would he get through them, knowing that he should be searching for his cousins? Perhaps he could use the time to get more information from Marie. Maybe she knew more than she knew she knew. If that made sense. There were so many questions: What did the men look like? What were they wearing? How did they come? Why hadn’t she asked the super for help? Why did she think the walls had ears? And, most important, why would anyone want to kidnap her parents?

  He decided to find out. But, because of the language barrier, it would not be easy. He would have to be inventive; turn it into a game. Armed with a pad, pen, and the thick Czech-English dictionary, he began his gentle interrogation. Laboriously, Fenimore looked up words and wrote them down, trying to compose his questions. After watching him struggle for a few minutes, Marie ran into her room and came back with a big, brightly colored picture book. Oh, no, thought Fenimore, she’s bored already and wants me to read to her. He recognized the style of the pictures right away. They were by a famous American illustrator—Richard Scarry. He had often read Scarry’s books to his niece and nephew in Philadelphia. But this book was different. It wasn’t just a picture book—it was a pictionary. The book was divided into sections with subtitles such as “Food,” “Clothing,” “Transportation,” “Body Parts,” et cetera. Under each heading were pictures of the appropriate objects. But, most importantly, under each object was listed its name—not in one, but in four languages: German, French, English, and Czech! Fenimore grabbed the book and let out a whoop. If Mr. Scarry had walked in at that moment, Fenimore would have hugged him.

  Pointing to a picture of a loaf of bread, he read the foreign names under it to Marie, careful to use the proper accent for each: “Das Brot … le pain … bread … chleb.”

  Marie disappeared into her room again. This time she came back carrying Jiri. She didn’t want the bear to miss all the fun. During his questioning, Fenimore included the bear. After asking Marie a question, he would turn to Jiri and whisper in his ear. Then he would lift Jiri up to his own ear, so the bear could whisper something into it. After listening for a minute, Fenimore would raise his eyebrows, gasp, and look horrified. Marie would double over with laughter.

  Slowly the game wore on, interrupted only for meals, when Fenimore gritted his teeth and ordered another pizza. One benefit of eating pizza was that they came to know Milo. If their pizza was his last delivery of the day, he stayed awhile and joined in their game. His English was more advanced than Marie’s and he served as their interpreter. “But,” he informed them, “I like video games better.”

  On the second day, when Milo delivered their lunch, Fenimore struck a deal with him. He could play video games if he would stay with Marie, while Fenimore made a quick trip to the store. For the first time since Fenimore had arrived, they had a decent dinner. Unfortunately, it included no Czech delicacies. Fenimore only knew how to cook American style. The meal consisted of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, and chocolate pudding. For the beverage, he insisted that Marie drink milk instead of soda. Fenimore drank milk, too—to set a good example.

  By the end of the second day, Fenimore had learned the following.

  1. The two kidnappers were young men and had come on motocykly (motorcycles). Marie had heard them pull up outside.

  2. They wore kožená bunda (leather jackets).

  3. They were špinavy (dirty).

  “Like me?” Fenimore suddenly realized he hadn’t taken a shower since he had arrived.

  “Ne,” she giggled.

  4. They spoke Czech with a funny accent.

  “Russian?”

  She shrugged.

  “German?”

  She shrugged again.

  5. The super was spatny (bad).

  Marie screwed up her face.

  Fenimore knew what spatny meant. His mother had used it to refer to him often, when he was a boy. But he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to know how the super was bad. Was he (a) disagreeable? (b) dishonest? (c) violent? Some things could not be described with pictures. He found himself acting out each of these categories in the manner of charades. For “disagreeable,” he frowned and stuck out his tongue at Jiri. Marie laughed, but shook her head. For “dishonest,” Fenimore put his wallet in Jiri’s lap, snuck up behind him, snatched it, and slipped it inside his own jacket pocket. “Ne, ne, ne!” Marie laughed again. But when, in an attempt to illustrate violence, Fenimore took Jiri across his knee and playfully spanked him, Marie did not laugh. She grabbed the teddy bear from him and clutched him to her chest. The look of fear in her eyes was the same as on the day Fenimore had found her. Remembering the super’s thick, freckled hand, he wondered if he had ever touched her. Fenimore decided that he had learned all he could from Marie. He let her return to the computer and her games of solitaire.

  That night, before Marie fell asleep, Fenimore came into her room and sat on her bed. Instead of reading her a bedtime story, he told her about his friends in Philadelphia. Again, he resorted to drawings. (If the medical profession ever became intolerable, he could always switch to art, he thought.) There they were, all in a row … .

  Marie was especially taken with Sal. “Koka” she asked. (“Cat?”) Fenimore’s artistic attempt was somewhat ambiguous.

  He nodded.

  “I like koky,” she said, with a wicked grin.

  Fenimore sent a silent prayer across the Atlantic, begging Sal’s forgiveness.

  They had showered, dressed, and checked the contents of Marie’s suitcase for the last time. The plan was the same as three days ago when they had gone to the passport office.

  At ten-thirty sharp, Milo knocked on the door. Fenimore let him in and looked down the alley to make sure the coast was clear.

  A truck was parked in the alley and some unloading was going on. Marie peered out, too, and turned pale.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “There’s plenty of room. You can slip past—”

  “Ne!” She ran into her room and shut the door.

  As Fenimore stared down the alley, he caught sight of the super reaching up from the basement entrance to receive a box.

  Fenimore looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. The plane left at two. And they had to pick up her passport. He knocked on her door. “Marie … .”

  “Ne!” she shouted.

  He went and stood behind Milo. Immersed in his game, the boy was unaware of his predicament. Fenimore watched the green-and-yellow gnomes zigzagging across the screen for a while. Then he went back to the kitchen and looked down the alley. The truck was gone. There was no sign of the super. He called to Marie. Cautiously, she came out of her room. He helped her into Milo’s uniform and repeated the instructions of two days ago. Pocketing the ring of keys, he left by the front door.

  Because of the time lost, Fenimore ordered the cabbie to drive rychlý (fast). Although Marie’s spirits had been high while they were preparing to leave, the truck incident had put a damper on them. In the taxi, she was subdued. Now that she was actually on her way, Fenimore felt her anxiety building
. After all, she had probably never traveled alone before. She huddled in the corner of the taxi, clutching Jiri. Fenimore directed his conversation mainly to the bear. In halting Czech he told him about all the wonderful things he would see in Philadelphia. Besides his relatives at the zoo, there was the Franklin Institute and Independence Hall. The “Rocky” statue and lobsters at Bookbinders. From time to time, Fenimore glanced out the back window to see if they were being tailed. But there was no sign of any car sticking to them. The passport was ready when they arrived and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

  Once inside the airport terminal, Fenimore tucked Marie’s passport into a cloth purse he had found in his cousin’s bureau, and added some U.S. currency—two twenties and some coins. He pinned the purse to the inside of her jacket with two giant safety pins. “Keep your passport in there at all times,” he told her sternly. “Don’t show it to anyone except the man in the window here,” he pointed to the airport official checking people’s passports, “and the man in the window in Philadelphia. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  He prayed that she did.

  Last night, while Marie was sleeping, Fenimore had made a small passport for the bear—out of cardboard—and drawn his picture inside. When it was their turn to step up to the window and show Marie’s passport, Fenimore pulled out Jiri’s, too. He hoped the official had a sense of humor. The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. He looked from the bear to Marie. Without a word, he stamped the little passport. Marie’s smile was his reward.

  After customs, there was a half-hour wait before boarding. Fenimore thought Marie should have something to eat. First he checked the restaurant area for suspicious-looking characters. All seemed clear. He headed toward an attractive café that promised coffee, hot chocolate, and some succulent Czech pastries. He was beginning to salivate when he felt a tug on his arm. “Look, Uncle Andrew!” Marie pointed to a red awning decorated with two golden arches. Reluctantly, he changed his direction.

  At the barrier, Fenimore briefed the flight attendant, who spoke Czech and English, about who was meeting Marie. She assured him that Marie would be given safe conduct to his friends in Philadelphia. He reminded Marie about the sign in her suitcase, to be sure to take it out when she reached the other airport, and to hold it up high. He gave her a peck on the cheek and Jiri a pat on the head. As Marie headed down the ramp, she turned twice to wave. The second time she raised Jiri’s paw. Then they disappeared.

  Fenimore swallowed three times and was amazed to find the lump was still there. He headed for the nearest bar. Not even a Pilsner helped. He ordered another. He needed to get his bearings. He was not a chameleon. Switching from nanny to detective would take a little time.

  He let his mind idle, watching the people rove to and fro through the airport. The crowd was not as varied as in the Philadelphia airport. Here, everyone looked pretty much the same. The same color, the same demeanor, the same economic background. And they were quieter. Missing was the occasional raucous outcry or sudden belly laugh. No doubt about it, Czechs were more withdrawn and subdued than Americans. But, not long ago, they had been ruled by an oppressive Communist regime. Such a regime did not encourage freedom of expression—or hilarity. The Czechs were not chameleons, either. It would take time.

  Leaving the bar, Fenimore stopped an airport official to ask where he could buy a bus ticket into the city. He had decided on his next step—to go to the Charles University and talk to his cousins’ colleagues. Maybe one of them could throw some light on the kidnapping. As Fenimore climbed onto the bus, it dawned on him that he was free. Being trapped in that apartment caring for a child for three days had weighed on him more than he realized. Despite the heavy responsibility that still lay before him—the rescue of his cousins—he felt a lightness of being.

  The City

  Prague—a precious jewel in the country’s crown of stone.

  Goethe

  CHAPTER 9

  Once on the bus, Fenimore immersed himself in his guidebook. The Charles University was founded in the 1300s by the emperor Charles IV and modeled after the Sorbonne in Paris—“so that the Czechs did not need to beg for the crumbs of learning abroad but found at home a laden table,” the book quoted the emperor.

  It was the oldest university in Central Europe. His mother had graduated first in her class from the Teachers’ College, a great achievement in the 1940s. Then she had been given a teaching post. His father was American and had met her at the end of World War Two when he was stationed briefly in Prague. Captivated by this brilliant, auburn-haired beauty, he proposed after only a few weeks. Equally enamored, she accepted. The plan was for him to return to Philadelphia, establish his medical practice, and then send for her. (People were more conservative in those days.) But shortly after he returned to the States, the Communists took over Czechoslovakia, adopting Prague as their headquarters. Members of the Czech faculty and students were forced from the University and made to work in factories and mines. Those were the lucky ones. Others were beaten, imprisoned, and even killed. His mother’s letters to his father became more and more desperate. He sent her money and, with the help of friends, she escaped to France. When she arrived in Philadelphia, she and his father were married the same day in a civil ceremony, at City Hall.

  His mother had no desire to teach in America. “My English will never be good enough,” she said. The women’s movement had not yet begun and she was under no pressure to work outside the home. She was content to look after her husband and two sons—cooking, sewing, gardening. In her spare time, she took advantage of Philadelphia’s cultural opportunities, of which there were many. The Philadelphia Orchestra at the Academy of Music, under Eugene Ormandy, was universally acknowledged as the best in the world. There was the theater—the Walnut, the Locust, the Forrest, the Shubert—and the opera several times a year. And many art museums. Her favorite was the Rodin Museum. Within walking distance of their Spruce Street town house (“walking distance,” by his mother’s standards), she would go there and sit for hours—especially in the spring when the tall French doors were thrown open and the cherry trees bloomed in the garden. It reminded her of Praha, she said. Sometimes she would take Fenimore and his brother along—and after they had dutifully admired the statue of Balzac, and she, The Kiss—she would take them to Fairmount Park to play.

  He searched his guidebook for more information about the University.

  A well of mineral water, from which fourteenth-century students quenched their thirst, still holds a place in the reception hall. And the timbers in the ceiling—half a meter (nearly two feet) in diameter—are reminders of the great forests that surrounded the city long ago. The black marble floor shines like a lake in the moonlight.

  Fenimore tucked the book into his jacket pocket and prepared to meet his cousins’ colleagues—all learned professors at this venerable university. In Central Europe, a professor is a revered personage, not an object of faint ridicule (sometimes labeled “absentminded”), as in America.

  Absorbed in his thoughts, Fenimore descended the bus. When he raised his eyes, his first sight of the city struck him with the impact of a physical blow. Before him rose a panorama of bridge, castle, and cathedral—in Technicolor! Fenimore had seen this view many times, but always in the muted, sepia tones of his mother’s old picture books. In the late-afternoon sun, it glowed with the warmth of rich gold. He stood riveted—staring, until a passerby inquired, “Zatril jstese?” (“Lost?”)

  Fenimore shook his head and moved on. Although his feet were drawn toward the Charles Bridge and the castle, conscious of his obligation, he turned resolutely toward the University.

  The entrance to the University was a disappointment. A utilitarian building constructed of ordinary blond brick, vintage 1950s. Where were the medieval stone walls that soared to a ceiling of thick, ancient beams and the black marble floor that shone like a lake in the moonlight? CLOSED. UNDER CONSTRUCTION, a sign read.

  Because of the spring break, the
prosaic reception area was empty and silent, missing the usual noisy bustle of students. The only human being in sight was a stubby man in workclothes pushing a broom in a desultory manner over the dusty wood floor.

  “I’m looking for the dean,” Fenimore said in Czech. (He had prepared this statement the night before with the aid of his dictionary.)

  “Nobody here. Closed for vacation.”

  Fenimore’s heart sank. “Nobody?” he repeated in disbelief.

  With a smile the man shook his head, taking pleasure in repeating the bad news.

  Refusing to believe that such a vast university could be completely empty, Fenimore headed for the stairs.

  “Halt!”

  Pausing, Fenimore adopted a desperate expression and said, “Toilet?”

  The man’s face relaxed and he gave directions to a washroom on the second floor.

  On the second floor, a long corridor confronted Fenimore with a string of closed doors. He began systematically to open them and poke his head inside. Room after room revealed row upon row of empty desks, a blackboard, and that ripe odor of unwashed students that lingers in centers of learning throughout the world. Persisting, Fenimore climbed the stairs to the third floor. Here he found most of the doors locked. Those that were unlocked, opened into small offices, probably belonging to faculty members. By American standards, they were meagerly furnished with only the basics—a desk, a chair, and a bookcase—all in shabby condition. About to give up, Fenimore opened a door at the end of the hall.

  A slight man with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses glanced up, startled.

  “Excuse me,” Fenimore apologized. “Can you help me?”