Which Way Is Home?

by Maria Kiely

  “How did you find us, Papa? How did you know where we were?”

  “I got your telegram. The one you sent from Zwiesel,” Papa says.

  “From Zwiesel?” Ruzena is shocked. “But the American officer said that was impossible. He said no communication was going through.”

  “But the man at the post office in Zwiesel did say he could send the telegram,” I remind her.

  Papa nods and continues, “I got the telegram, but I still wasn’t exactly sure how best to proceed, and then I ran into the good lieutenant here, who was in Innsbruck for some meetings. We were friends when I was a diplomat in Paris, but I hadn’t seen him in years. I explained our situation to him, and he kindly offered to help me obtain some French passports and come with me to get you. Now we must hope those papers work to get us across the border.”

  We tell Papa all about our journey as we drive. After about two hours, Papa stops the car at the border. An officer leans in and asks to see our papers. He looks at them for a moment and then asks the lieutenant to go with him into the border office.

  I sit completely still and quiet. I was so happy to see Papa, I forgot we still had to make it across another border. Mama’s hands are clenched tightly in her lap. Papa’s hands are wrapped around the steering wheel, and he sits staring straight ahead. Ruzena clutches Honza’s letter. It seems like my family doesn’t draw a single breath while we sit in the car on the German-Austrian border waiting for the lieutenant to return from the patrol building.

  The minutes drag by like hours. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket as far as they will go, and my finger pokes into a tiny hole in the bottom corner. Something hard rubs against my fingertip. I move my hand around, trying not to tear my pocket any further as I dislodge my pebble. I can’t believe it was in there this whole time! An officer passes by the car and pauses to look us over. He can tell we’re not French, I think. He knows we are lying and he is going to report us. I stare directly into his eyes, clutch my pebble, and pray that he doesn’t speak to us. Then the French lieutenant reappears. He nods to the officer and gets back in the car.

  “Drive on,” he says. Just two simple words, but to me they are the most beautiful words in the world. They mean we’re on our way to the French headquarters in Innsbruck.

  We are together.

  We are safe.

  Chapter 41

  FINDING HOME

  THE WATER FEELS deliciously cool as I float gently on my back gazing up at the velvety green Austrian Alps. The ones in the distance are capped with snow, and they remind me of fancy cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar. I roll over and swim slowly to the wooden raft floating in the sparkling lake. I pull myself out of the water and lie flat on the smooth planks. I wave to Mama and Ruzena, who are lying side by side on the beach, reading.

  I think of Honza—and how lucky it was that we met him. He showed us that in the midst of uncertainty, you can find people you can rely on. He seems impossibly far away now, but I trust we will see him again someday.

  The sun has baked the surface of the raft, and I close my eyes to shut out the brightness. I want to just enjoy the moment and melt into the warmth—but one thought still circles around inside my head and I can’t let it go. Where will home be now?

  The French officers have been kind and generous to us, and staying at their headquarters has been like a wonderful dream, but it can’t last. We are leaving in a few days. Papa says we’ve been invited to stay with some of his friends in France, near the Swiss border, where he will look for a job.

  I am glad he has a plan for us, but it is all so hard to imagine. And when I asked if we’ll see Maruska or Pavel or Babicka again—if we will ever go home—Mama said she prays we will, but for now, as long as the four of us are together, wherever we go is home.

  I push myself up on my elbows and squint to see Papa walking down to the water in his bathing suit. He stops next to Mama and Ruzena. Mama reaches out to him, and he takes her hand and kisses it. Then he bends to kiss Ruzena on the top of her head. She looks up at him and smiles.

  Papa smooths his black hair off his forehead and waves at me. He takes a running start and dives into the lake with a big splash. With swift, easy strokes, he swims out to the raft.

  “Come on in, Anna,” he calls to me.

  I stand up. Papa holds out his arms and I jump. The water is perfect. Together we swim out into the lake.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The real Anna & Ruzena

  This book is based on the true story of my mother’s escape from Czechoslovakia at the age of eleven in 1948. Her real name is Jana, although we call her Anna in the book. It is a story that I have heard all my life and it is a part of the fabric of who I am. When I was little, it simply sounded like an exciting adventure, and I played it like Anna and Maruska play Storm at Sea. As I grew older, I began to think about the terrifying reality of my mother having to flee her homeland because it was no longer safe, leaving behind almost everything and everyone she ever knew and loved. I thought about the strength and bravery it took for my grandmother to take her daughters on this journey not knowing if or when they would ever find my grandfather. I thought about how versions of this story have played out again and again all over the world, not only throughout history but also today. And I realized how important it is for my children to understand that.

  A few years ago, I recorded my mother telling the story to my children. She began by saying, “This is the story of how you all came to be.” After listening to the recording, I decided to write this book for my children and my nieces and nephews so they would know where they came from. I embellished some of the plot and combined several of many cousins to create Anna’s cousins, Maruska and Pavel, but most of it happened as I have written it.

  The historical parts are as accurate as possible. My grandfather (Papa) really did act as a spy for the Czech Resistance during World War II. He communicated with British Intelligence via the BBC radio to tell them where the Nazi munitions factories were so they could bomb them. It is also true that the Communists wanted him to join their party, and when he refused and then uncovered the truth about the death of Jan Masaryk, they put out a warrant for his arrest. He had to leave the country right away. His friends from the Underground Resistance set up an escape for him, but they refused to take children. He and my grandmother didn’t want to be apart, but they wouldn’t leave the children behind, so after he left, another escape was planned for my grandmother, mother, and aunt using codes such as the book Wuthering Heights and “buying kid gloves.” With these codes, the men orchestrating the escape would be able to recognize my grandmother and she would know whom to trust.

  It turned out that they should not have trusted their guide through the forest. My mother found out almost forty years later that many refugees sent on escape routes from Hotel Blue Star were purposely sent into traps and caught by the Russian police and sent to prison camps. My mother believes that they avoided the trap because of the mud and their decision to take the drier road.

  After they reunited with my grandfather in Regensburg, they stayed at the French command in Austria for a few weeks. From there they were taken in by the generous family of a Swiss poet and diplomat, Francois Fanzoni, whose daughter they had hosted when she came to Prague to study voice. After nine months in France, my grandfather was offered a job in French-occupied Morocco. They lived in Morocco for six years. From there, my grandfather got a job working for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, and he and my grandmother lived all over Europe, finally settling in a small town in France near the Swiss border. My mother went to college at La Sorbonne in Paris and then got a scholarship to study biology at Harvard-Radcliffe University. She met my father at Harvard and decided to stay in the United States.

  My grandmother begged her mother and sisters to escape, too, but they didn’t want to believe the Communist takeover was going to last. Event
ually, my grandmother convinced her sister (Teta J) to leave. She and her daughter (Maruska) tried to escape a few months later, but they were caught. Teta J was put in a prison camp for women. Maruska was put in an orphanage until she was found and rescued by one of her aunts, with whom she lived while her mother was in prison. The farm in Roven was taken away from my mother’s family by the Communists.

  Because of the Iron Curtain, my mother was not able to return to Roven until 1990, more than forty years after she left. The farm was in terrible disrepair, but some of her family, including her cousin (Maruska), still lived nearby. They were overjoyed to be reunited.

  Over the years, the family has regained some of the farm property in Roven, although not the main house, and they are slowly rebuilding. In 2016, I traveled to Roven with my parents, my husband, and our two children. My mother and her cousin showed us their old school and where they played the Mrs. games and Storm at Sea. They took us to the same churchyard where their grandparents were buried. My mother and my daughter led the whole family in singing “Koupím Já Si Koně Vraný” and “Zeleni Hajove.” My children played in the fields with their cousins just like Anna, Pavel, and Maruska. It felt like home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, thank you to my mother, Jana Moravkova Kiely. Thank you for knedlíky, buchty, and Honza stories, and for playing Storm at Sea with me, for singing all the songs, and for talking about Roven so I knew it before I ever saw it, and thank you for all the millions of other reasons I grew up and wanted to write this book. Thank you for, while I was writing the book, always remembering more stories and more details even when you said you couldn’t. Thank you for staying up past your bedtime to read my drafts. Thank you for saying it was because you wanted to see how it turned out—even though it’s your story. Thank you, Mommy.

  Thank you to my father, Robert Kiely, for believing in me from the very start, for instilling in me a deep love of books and writing, and for teaching me how to tell a good story.

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Nancy Paulsen, for guiding me through the journey of writing my first novel with infinite wisdom, kindness, and understanding. I am deeply grateful for the extraordinary care you took in making my mother’s story blossom. I learned so much more from you than I could have ever imagined.

  Thank you to my wicked-awesome sister, Christina Kiely, for so many things that I’d need to add an addendum to fit them all in, but mostly for always being there when I need you.

  Thank you to my first reader and editor, Mary Sullivan Walsh, for all your work helping this book take shape, for your energy, and for your friendship. You made me believe my dream could be a reality.

  Thank you to my beloved writing professor, Adrienne Kennedy. You taught me the joy of living in my imagination, the importance of never giving up, and, of course, how to write.

  Thank you to the amazing team at Penguin Young Readers. I am in awe of all that you do. Thank you to Sara LaFleur for your patience and kindness in answering all my questions and helping me every step of the way; thank you to Emily Romero for taking a chance and working your magic; thank you to Allyson Floridia for your incredible attention to detail; and thank you to Luisa Rivera for creating the most beautiful cover art I’ve ever seen, which perfectly captures the essence of the book.

  Thank you to all my fabulous family and friends for all your love, patience, and enthusiasm. Especially: Majka and Milo Kiely-Miller, for asking the best questions; Katie Kanter, for being one of my first readers and giving such insightful comments and suggestions; Sarah Pershouse, for always listening even when that meant taking a three-hour walk so I could tell you the entire plot of the book before I started writing; and Sarah Olsen, for being the world’s best cheerleader all the time.

  Thank you to my super-fantastic kids, Nina and Sam. You inspire me every day. Happiness is snuggling up under a blanket, reading aloud to you. I love you a million, billion, zillion bunches!

  Finally, thank you to my incredible husband, Chris Ilch. I don’t even know how to find the words to say thank you for everything you do and what you mean to me, but fortunately you can read my mind, so I don’t have to! LYIEEWWAB!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Maria Kiely studied creative writing at Harvard University. The daughter of a refugee, she grew up listening to her mother's extraordinary tales of escaping Communist-controlled Czechoslovakia. Which Way Is Home? is her debut novel. Maria lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, with her husband and two children.

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