A Sparrow in Terezin

by Kristy Cambron

  Kája ran a hand over the pearls at her nape, thinking on it.

  The worst?

  By the looks of her new boss, she was ill prepared for such imaginings. He looked about as cuddly as a rock. Still, something told her that Mr. Marshall was right. She’d come halfway across the city that morning, from Oxford and Palestine months before, and from the stark reality of Nazi-occupied Prague before that. It seemed rather cowardly to turn around and go home now.

  Kája nodded agreement.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marshall.” She swept the skirt under her and took the seat he offered, then inclined her head in a polite nod. “I’d be very pleased to stay.”

  One day. She vowed to give it a solid day of effort. Beyond that, only God knew if it could work.

  “Supplies.” He leaned forward and tapped a hand to the top drawer. “Paper, pencils, and file folders. You’ll find a small dictionary in there, too, though I’d go down to the archive library for any real research.”

  Kája’s heart skipped a beat. “You have a library?”

  “If one could call it that.” He laughed. “You’ll see what I mean when you venture down to the basement. It’s not as impressive as Oxford, so you’ll have to temper your expectations, I’m afraid. The books are old and covered in an inch of dust, but they should suffice in a pinch. You’re free to roam down there whenever you wish.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure.” She looked down to survey the supplies in her top drawer.

  “And in case you were wondering . . . you’ll find your gas mask is on your bottom left.”

  When Kája turned back to face him, he pointed to the bottom drawer.

  “I’m a bit surprised you’re not carrying your own. I thought most everyone did in London.”

  “Well, I used to but we’d heard that the scare was over. The women in my building have all but stopped carrying them now. They keep saying that the sirens are just drills and it’s ridiculous to think of wearing them in the summer when it’s so hot.”

  “Well, just as a precaution, then, you’ll find that every desk has one. We all move about the office quite regularly in the mighty pursuit of putting ink to paper every day. You can imagine. Edmunton thought it a better strategy to outfit the desks, just in case anyone forgot to bring theirs in. He may be an old killjoy, but he’s an orderly one at that. Safety first, I’m afraid.”

  Kája opened the bottom drawer.

  She stared back at the mask that was tucked there, a bigeyed, black thing with a circular vent at the mouth and adjustable straps that looked akin to snake-like appendages. She couldn’t imagine wearing it. Hated the sight of it for the memories it caused to float to the surface of her heart.

  It was terribly frightening that the item had become some strange part of their new normal. In the streets of London and Oxford alike, the last year had seen women and children carrying masks about as they carried a handbag or a skipping rope. She’d even seen a woman pass by with a buggy in Grosvenor Square; her baby had been wrapped in some horrible canvas contraption that looked like a beekeeper’s suit. The picture of that sweet child with such innocence to what was happening in its world—it fairly turned her stomach.

  He must have seen the shades of fear wash over her face because Liam cleared his throat and offered, “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you. As you said, it’s just a precaution. I’m sure we’ll never have need of them.”

  “No.” She quickly closed the drawer, not wishing to look upon the eyesore a moment longer. “No, of course not. But it is a comfort to know it’s there, whether we’ll have need of it or not.”

  The interaction between them seemed awkward then. No one liked talking of war. Of gas masks and air-raid sirens that cried out in the streets without warning. But they’d breeched the uncomfortable topic and it seemed there was little left to do but turn to work.

  “Well,” he sighed, and offered a respectful nod of the head. “You’re all set, then?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She nodded, looking away almost immediately.

  It was a paltry response, she knew. But she feared that if she looked at him a moment longer, every fear bubbling in her heart would somehow show upon her face. She wasn’t one to give up her privacy easily.

  “Good. Welcome aboard,” he whispered, having leaned in at her side. “And now that you’re one of us, might I offer a piece of advice?”

  She was hesitant, but nodded agreement.

  He studied her a bit more earnestly.

  “Do you want to be a serious journalist?”

  Kája took issue with the question. The fact that he had enough bravado to ask it of a complete stranger was telltale. She notched her chin higher in the air and answered, “Of course.”

  “Then stop Edmunton in his tracks now. Your position has seen four secretaries in the past two months.”

  “But I was hired as a copy-editor, remember?”

  “So were they,” he countered. “And they managed to tire of his demands within a week. If you can make it as a secretary longer than they, it will be much to your credit. If you’re here because you want to be a serious journalist, then you must make him take you seriously.”

  “How?”

  “Find your story. Write it. Push it under his nose. He’ll only reject a secretary for so long. If it’s a good story written with heart, eventually he won’t be able to help himself and he’ll have to publish it.”

  He gave her a last nod of the head and Kája watched as he walked away.

  Though she disliked the blunt delivery, he was right. Mistake or not, if she wanted to be taken seriously, she’d have her work cut out for her. She’d have to prove her worth.

  Kája exhaled and set out to find her bearings by inspecting the supplies in her drawers. She pulled one drawer out, scooting back with her chair, and noticed that the wheels had rolled over a sheet of paper at her feet. It left a line of roller marks across the center of the page, but she could see it was one of his crossword puzzles that had floated down to the floor and landed in the shadow of the desk.

  “Oh, Mr. Marshall,” she called out after snatching it up, thinking to catch him before he’d gone. But in looking up she saw a sea of unfamiliar faces across the newsroom. He’d blended in somewhere, finding another desk to haunt with his smiles and opinions.

  Well, she thought, and slid the sheet of paper into her top drawer. This is the oddest office I’ve ever seen. Copy-editors are secretaries and war reporters are working on the crosswords.

  She sighed.

  When would the world make sense again?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  May 22, 1940

  The Daily Telegraph

  Fleet Street, London

  Kája turned the corner and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the glow of a single lamp lit against the basement archives. A man sat at a long wooden work table in the center of the room with tall bookshelves and ancient ledgers all around him. His features were encased in the dim light of a table lamp.

  It had been five weeks and they’d rarely spoken since her first day of employment, but she recognized him even from behind: Liam Marshall.

  He’d leaned back in the wooden chair and stretched out his feet to rest upon the edge of the tabletop, casually reading the worn leather book in his hands. His hair was slightly mussed and his hand rested on his chin as if deep in thought. It surprised her then that he looked up at her quiet steps and without warning, connected his blue eyes with hers.

  Kája faltered, almost dropped her armful of books, then recovered quickly by readjusting the bundle in her arms. He watched her with a half grin on his lips and took off his reading glasses. He set them on the desk.

  She thought it polite to smile in greeting, so she did so, respectfully, and moved to continue on her way. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor as she hurried by.

  “I see that you weren’t deterred by my description of the library.”

  His question halted her at the bottom of the stairs.

/>   Kája had expected him to ignore her. After all, she was about as prim and proper as a secretary could be—not flashy and flirty like most of the other office girls who leaned over the desks to admire his company. She thought for sure he wouldn’t pay her any attention with her high-collared suit and long hair tightly coiffed. But it seemed she was wrong.

  He was paying attention.

  He’d asked her a question and she was fumbling in the awkward silence as seconds ticked by without her having issued a reply.

  She turned and answered quickly, “It’s not as bad as you make it sound. It is a library, if a rather humble one.”

  “Humble is a word for it. We don’t get many visitors down here, except for during the drills, of course.” He glanced up at the ceiling on the last words. “Some of the overnight chaps had to come down here last night, as a matter of fact.”

  “I know. We’ve been down here several times in the last few weeks, and I spent last night in the Anderson shelter behind my flat.”

  “I’m sorry. London’s not given you much of a welcome, have we? We’ve had a few drills lately but that’s all there is to it. Nothing to worry about.” He snapped his book shut on a sigh. “On most days it’s just a quiet spot for reading.”

  “I was just looking for a book myself.” She tilted her chin down to the stack in her arms and started toward the stairs. “I’ll be on my way since I found it.”

  “And a few others, I see.” The wooden desk chair squeaked as he dropped his feet to the ground and stood up. He laid his book on the desk. “Edmunton send you down here?”

  She turned, blurting out, “No. Not exactly,” and had to step back lest she bump clean into him. He stood confidently close, only a few steps away from the bookshelf nearest her. “I was just doing some research.”

  He noticed the book in her free hand. “Queen Victoria’s Gardens.” He arched an eyebrow in question.

  “I like gardens.” She shrugged. “Poppies. They’re beautiful. And they remind me of home.”

  “Prague has an abundance of poppies?”

  She nodded. “In some areas, yes. There are fields of them. They popped up, growing wild after the Great War. And they are a symbol to remember those who sacrificed everything, especially given what we could be facing now.”

  “Hmm. And here I’d thought flowers were synonymous with peace. Thank you for the education.”

  He stole a quick glance at her stack of books.

  She turned slightly, hoping to take the bindings out of his view. He seemed to notice her attempt at hiding the titles and leaned in a step closer.

  “It’s just a bit of research.” She looked down at the tips of her shoes, willing the warmth of her coloring cheeks to fade before she dared look up again.

  He shook his head. “No—you misunderstand completely. You’re not in trouble. You work here and everything in this archive is at your disposal.”

  “Thank you.” Kája managed a faint smile, upturning her lips in the slightest show of cordiality.

  “I only meant that I’d not have taken you for a fan of Dickens. Austen or Brontë, maybe. But Dickens can be so severe. Are you quite taken with the downtrodden, then?”

  “No. But his books are well written and I like to think I can learn something from what he has to say. And seeing as the fiction section is small . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head over her shoulder to the bookshelves behind them.

  “I hadn’t thought anyone else noticed the size of it,” he said. “Deplorable. Hardly any Shakespeare. One could forget we’re in England by the looks of this place. Better off going to the libraries open to the public. They’re all free, you know. But here is probably closer. I understand.”

  She answered softly, “Thank you,” and moved to pass by.

  “It’s just . . .” It was the openness in his voice that stopped her.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “Well, I’ve seen you in the newsroom. You work hard. Keep to yourself. And you’re a skilled editor on the stories Edmunton lets you touch. I’m afraid he has marginal respect for the professions of women outside this office,” he noted, shaking his head. “Even less for the switchboard operators and secretaries he must employ within it, now that most of the men are going off to fight. I’m afraid he finds that this war hasn’t been very kind to him in that regard and it colors how some might be treated.”

  “I may have noticed something to that effect.” But she thought of the fact that Liam, a skilled reporter, was working on something as lackluster as crosswords. “And does he have respect for the reporters on the war beat or do they also find themselves assigned menial tasks?”

  He smiled at her moxie, an unexpected hint of a grin that took her completely off guard.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” she said, and adjusted the stack of books in her arms, intent upon walking away. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I didn’t expect to run into anyone down here at this time of the evening unless accompanied by air-raid sirens.”

  He stood tall and shrugged. “Well, some of us keep odd hours.”

  She muttered, “I’ve heard” before she could stop herself and immediately bit her bottom lip. Why had she said that?

  His eyebrow arched again, but this time his face broke into an open smile.

  “You’ve heard about me?”

  “Yes. No,” she said, shaking her head, embarrassment taking over. “Not you in particular. What I mean to say is—the war beat. I’ve been informed about the reporters in your section.”

  “Have you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. And kept smiling—at her. “And what tales have been spinning about us? All stories of gallantry, I hope. Enough to make our Churchill proud?”

  “Nothing exactly. Just that you’re in and out of the newsroom but you always send your stories in. You often report from the front lines now that we’re at war. The hours you keep are a mystery sometimes—just as the locations you’re sent are.”

  “Oh. Is that all? Men of mystery, are we? Sounds rather glamorous for a petty reporter. I’ll have to demand Edmunton give me a raise for that added mystique. This could make a gentleman walk a little taller when all is said and done.”

  She paused. With a cautious tone to her voice, she added, “You must enjoy creating the crossword puzzles, then.”

  “Well, I admit it’s not exactly hard-hitting journalism. But if one enjoys what he does, why question the assignment of it?”

  Liam looked at her for a long second before he finally broke the connection.

  He leaned over to a nearby bookshelf and scanned the titles with his index finger until he stopped, having found the one he was looking for. He pulled an encyclopedia from the shelf and gently placed it on the top of the stack she held in her arms.

  “Here,” he said and turned to gather his things. He swung a worn leather satchel over his shoulder and grabbed up the book he’d been reading. “If it’s completing crosswords you’re really interested in, you’ll find that edition will serve you much better. But I warn you, Miss Makovský—Edmunton doesn’t take to others nosing into his reporters’ assignments, so to speak. Best watch your step.”

  “I didn’t mean to question his assignments—”

  “No. Of course not,” he added, studying her a bit more intently. “And I suppose a good puzzle should pique the interest of any learned individual such as yourself. I must say that I’ve been curious as to why my submissions have been wandering off. Crosswords aren’t usually interesting enough that secretaries would seek to edit them before they go to print. But I suppose I must concede that they are interesting to you.”

  Kája stood still, the wave of his statement having fully washed over her. She reminded herself not to be shocked. And certainly not to let her jaw drop on his comment. It was clear that he knew she was looking at his work. The only question was, did he know why?

  “Please do put Friday’s crossword in my desk when you’re finished with it,
” he noted, and tipped the brim of a fedora down over his brow. She wasn’t lost in the casualness of how he smiled as he walked toward the stairs, leaving her quite taken aback in his wake. “And douse the light when you leave. We’re under blackout orders, you know.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sera had stolen a quiet hour in her favorite spot at the estate.

  She’d melted into the den’s cushy chair by the window, overlooking the span of bay waters beyond. She was reading, as she often did now, but found that churning thoughts had drawn her gaze from the pages in her hand to the span of blue outside.

  The transition from a life of East Coast hurry to one of West Coast solace proved difficult in the whirlwind weeks following their wedding. Sera’s gallery opening was still months away. And though she had weeks of work to get it up and running, all effort in that area of her life had seemed at least temporarily stalled. With the uncertainty swirling around William’s forthcoming legal battles, they’d opted to forego a honeymoon and instead move into the estate house until their future was more certain.

  The arched oak door creaked, breaking into her thoughts. Sera looked up to find William standing in the doorway with hands in the pockets of his jeans and a tired look upon his face.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  Sera closed the book she’d been reading and turned it over in her lap.

  “Lately I’m always here.”

  She offered him the warmth of a smile.

  He walked over to her side and dropped a kiss on her lips, then slid into the couch opposite her. Sera needed no further explanation. The weary lines etched in his forehead spoke on their own. William had news and by the looks of him, it couldn’t be good.

  He leaned forward, rested elbows to his knees, and exhaled.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Okay,” Sera answered, her heart constricting from the weight of worry those words often bring. “What is it?”