A Sparrow in Terezin

by Kristy Cambron

  “And how will I know her?”

  “Mrs. Sørensen is an older woman with a stiff upper lip. Don’t worry,” he whispered, resolute. “She’ll find you. Expect her at the station when the train comes in. She’ll accompany you across the border into Dusseldorf and from there, farther into Germany. You’ll be working to distribute aid to POWs and civilians there and through to Prague. Keep a low profile. Make an effort to speak very little. Understand?”

  Kája nodded.

  She watched as SS officers marched around the platform. She hated the look of them, so cold with the guns in their hands. She turned back to Liam, scared that they could see past her uniform and eye her as a Jew on sight.

  “Remember what I told you. Meet me in Zurich at the train platform two weeks from today. I’ll be waiting.” Liam extended his arm, offering her the satchel. She reached out to take it and in doing so, felt his hand cover hers for the briefest of seconds. It was an action hidden at her side, but comforting nonetheless. “You’re quite sure you want to do this?”

  Kája swallowed hard and took the satchel from him. She nodded as she swung the bag across her body. “Yes. I have to.”

  “And if you don’t meet me two weeks from now—”

  “I will.”

  “But if you don’t,” he said, and leaned in to stare her directly in the eyes. The lines in his face tensed on a serious whisper. “The whole of the German army won’t be able to hold me back. So help me, Kája, I’ll come in after you.”

  She downturned her head, the intimacy of his words making her heart leap.

  “It’s like you said—I’m stubborn to a fault. If I set my mind to have us out in two weeks, I’ll do it.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Liam, I must go,” she said, not looking up until the train whistle blew.

  “Two weeks,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “You’ll meet me in Switzerland in two weeks exactly. I want to hear you say it, Kája.”

  She hated to make a pledge.

  What if something went wrong? Kája couldn’t look back in those eyes and lie. Still, her heart tugged and she found herself agreeing. In the softest of whispers, she vowed, “Two weeks. I promise, Liam.”

  They stood fixed for a moment, holding on to her promise as the rush of people passed by. The train whistle blew again and Kája turned to it, feeling the call to go.

  “Here,” he said, and offered her a folded handkerchief.

  “What is it?”

  Kája unfolded the parcel to reveal an elegant cross on a dainty gold chain. It sparkled in the light.

  “It’s not much, but it’s gold. You could sell it or barter for something you might need on the way,” he started, then stopped just as quickly. He stared back at her and softly entreated, “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have that’s worth anything at all.”

  Kája looked back at him.

  The emotion was there in his words, painted across his face. She knew the necklace was important to him. And he’d given it to her. That made its worth invaluable.

  “Thank you, Liam. I’ll take good care of it.” She folded the delicate linen back into a square and tucked the kerchief in her pocket. Kája looked away, noticing the small faction of other Red Cross workers quickly boarding the train. The squeeze of his hand to hers brought her attention back.

  She offered him a faint smile and whispered, “I’ll be okay, Liam. I promise.”

  “I never should have left.”

  “But you went to fight. You had to go.”

  He shook his head. “Not after Bethnal Green. I meant before that, at the Columbia Road shelter two years ago.”

  Was he feeling renewed guilt for that? Now?

  “But I told you—it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could. You got me to the hospital. If anything, I owe you my life.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Liam said, and shook his head. He looked away for a split second and cleared his throat before continuing. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me your life; I want you to want to give it. I never should have left you at that shelter and by God, I never should have wasted this much time. I wanted you to stay, from that very first day on the job. I’d give anything to have those moments back, to be sitting in the archive library with you right now instead of standing here in the middle of hell, leaving you to go into God knows what all alone. After all this time, I don’t how to do this . . . I mean, I’ve never—”

  “You don’t have to feel guilty about letting me go, not if it’s what I want.” She eyed the crowd that was thinning and instinctively edged toward the train. “Liam, I need to board.”

  “Oh, blast it all. I’m such a fool.” He sighed and blurted out, “I’ve never come close to asking a woman to marry me before. I don’t know how to do it.”

  Kája stared back at him, blankly she was sure, unable to process what he’d just said.

  “Look—I know I should have said I love you long before now. God help me.” He glanced around, nervous. “I’ve nothing spectacular to offer you but a string of misadventures from this war and an old necklace . . . but I gave it to you because it’s dear to me. You are dear to me. And I can’t help but feel like I’m failing you somehow by letting you go.”

  “No,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “You are a good man, Liam Marshall.” She cupped a hand to his cheek. “And full of the courage I lack. You’re the reason I know I can do this.”

  The train whistle blew its final call and knowing she had to run to meet it, Kája reached up and on a rush of unencumbered joy, pressed a kiss to his lips.

  “I promise I’ll meet you in two weeks.” She leaned in and tipped up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “And I’ll give you my yes then.”

  Her bursting heart carried her with courage the rest of the way to the train.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Penny stuck a pen in the knot of waves at the back of her head.

  She’d tossed a throw pillow on the sitting room floor and had for the last hour and a half proceeded to dive into research from her makeshift desk on the coffee table. She stretched her arms up high over her head and then drank down the last of the tea in her cup. It clinked against the saucer when she set it down.

  “Well, that’s it. I’ve gone through the entire list of buyers for the art, contacted them all.” Penny held up sheets of paper, clearly triumphant in the momentary victory. “And you were right—none of the transactions were completed in person so no one could claim that they actually saw William do any of this. That’s good news, right?”

  Sera sat across from her on a cushy white chaise, gazing out the window to the garden beyond. It was lovely, blooming with a rainbow of vibrant hues as dusk began to fall. She’d been watching people walk through the iron gate at the entrance, wondering where their steps would take them. Wishing she had answers that would free her enough to take a casual stroll through a garden with carefree smiles like theirs.

  “Sera, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry. I was just—” Sera turned her attention back to the room and her animated friend within it. “Anyway. That’s very good news.”

  Penny gave her a speculative glare. “But you already knew that’s what we’d find, didn’t you?”

  “I told you he didn’t do it,” she chided, teasing her with a confident smile. “Don’t sound so surprised when you find evidence to back that up.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’ve managed to turn me into a champion for my honorary little niece or nephew’s father, but I’ve still got to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. You know that.”

  “Of course. And I do too. I’ve been over those files a hundred times on my own. I can’t find anything but my husband’s signature staring me back in the face every time I look at them.” Sera wound her hair round her hand and tossed it behind her shoulder so she could lean forward without it falling over her face. “And I don’t mean to be distracted. I’m sorry. But I just keep thinking—Will’s fa
ther is down on the first floor and we’re up here. You and I are shut up in his guest rooms, continuing research that we could have done in California. I’m wondering if I just shouldn’t bite the bullet and ask what I came to ask.”

  Penny winced as though she’d just been kicked by a mule.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you did just meet him.” She glanced around the room. “And we did just unpack.”

  “You think he’ll make us leave if I point-blank ask him what he knows that could save his son?”

  “Maybe . . .” Penny drew out the word, pausing to pout her bottom lip. She pulled her hands up to her chest in pleading fashion. “So why chance it? Please? The room is so pretty.”

  Sera tossed a throw pillow to wipe the satirical look from her friend’s face. Penny laughed and began putting paper back in file folders. Now that her battle was won, she pushed the stack over to the end of the coffee table, seemingly giving up on research in favor of settling in for the night.

  “I know it’s pretty,” Sera sighed. “That’s the problem. All of this is too pretty. It’s near perfect, right? It makes me think it’s all a mirage.”

  “Right.” Penny gave a supportive nod and leaned back against the chaise. She reached for the remote and raised the volume on the flat screen above the fireplace. “And that’s why it would be a shame to have to leave it after only a few hours. Who walks away from paradise?”

  “Right. Who does that?”

  Sera picked up a few folders from the stack and began thumbing through them.

  She’d seen everything before. If she was going to confront the Hanover figurehead in the morning instead of tonight, then at least her nervous fingers had something to keep occupied. Besides, Penny seemed enthralled in the old black-and-white movie on the television, so it appeared as though any further research was off the table for that night.

  “This is the best movie,” Penny whispered, and leaned forward as an airplane crashed down out of the clouds and an explosion ripped through a tree, lighting up the film’s night sky. “I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before.”

  “What are you watching?” Sera glanced up, her interest piqued. With her love of vintage, she was always game for a classic film. This one looked intriguing in the thirty seconds she’d seen of it.

  “Mrs. Miniver, with Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon. Have you heard of it?”

  “Oh yeah—Sophie mentioned it in one of her letters to me. It’s been a long time but from what I remember, it was a powerful film. I think it won several Academy Awards.”

  “It swept the Academy Awards in 1942. Can you believe that? I just looked it up. And here,” she said, pointing to the screen on her open laptop. “This website says, ‘Even Winston Churchill noted that it was more powerful to the war effort than the combined work of six military divisions.’ I wonder if the Blitz was really like what’s in this movie?”

  Gunfire erupted across the film’s quiet English countryside as a fire raged in the background. The scene was heart-wrenching. Sera was about to comment that she hoped the film was more fictional than factual, but she hadn’t time. Her eyes had become affixed to a photograph in a file folder, and it stole her thoughts away.

  “Penn?” She slapped the sheet of paper against Penny’s shoulder, snapping her attention back from the movie.

  “What’s wrong?” She must have seen the shock all over Sera’s face.

  “What is this?” she asked, pointing to the photo of a plain gold chain with a tiny, diamond-studded cross charm. “It wasn’t in with the others. I’ve never seen this before.”

  “That’s right. I found it in the family file. The assets that weren’t sold? Those are the ones the family still owns. I never included it with the others because it was given away instead of sold. It was only worth about $400.”

  “But Will’s signature is on this one too.”

  “His signature’s on all of them.”

  Sera pointed to the tiny block print at the bottom, with the recipient’s name. “Yeah, but this one went to a K. E. Hanover.”

  While Sera thought she needed to go downstairs to confront William’s father, the start of a new lead may have been right there in her hand all along.

  “Penny. There’s no K. E. Hanover that I’ve ever heard of.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  July 5, 1928

  Old Town Square

  Prague

  What is it, Father?”

  Ten-year-old Kája clutched her father’s hand to steady her balance as she looked up.

  “You’ve seen it before; it is a clock. A very big one.”

  The medieval clock tower was a stunning sight, the cornerstone of history in Prague’s Old Town Square. Kája’s father would take her for long walks on the nicest days of the summer. They’d stroll over the Charles Bridge, past the winding Vltava River, and stop to look at the masterfully rendered piece of architecture in the heart of the city.

  The old clock was majestic and mysterious, and she loved it.

  It was tall—three stories high at least—with ornate carvings and gold-gilded astrological figures of the moon and stars that turned in perfect precision with the schedule of the heavenly bodies above. It loomed up over the crowded square, having kept watch over Prague for centuries with its ancient stone wall and gothic figures peeking out from crevices in the front.

  There were two little windows set high on the tower. Kája always liked to step up on her tiptoes, hoping to see inside their leaded glass. She wondered what dark secrets they kept.

  They’d time their walks so they’d stand before the clock as it chimed at the top of the hour, sending the animated figures into movements around the face of the clock. Gilded figures of the apostles shook their heads back and forth as a skeleton looked on, appearing as a dark overlord to the scene.

  “But the figures—they move!”

  “They do,” her father said, chuckling under his breath. “Especially that one. See the skeleton? What do you make of him?”

  Kája wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like him. He looks mean.”

  “Yes, yes. I see how you’d find him menacing,” he said, and knelt at her side until his cheek was level with hers. He pointed up to the clock’s face. “What else do you see?”

  “It is a clock. To tell time.”

  “Of course. But it’s more than that. Our clock is art, no?”

  She thought about it for a moment and tilted her head to the side. “It does have colors on it. And statues. Does that make it art?”

  “What do you think?”

  She gave a confident nod. “I would say yes.”

  “Look. Just there.” He motioned toward the astrological symbols of the sun and the moon and stars. “You see that all of time—even God’s time—is set to a clock. All moves at his will.” He took her hand and pointed her index finger, tracing the edge of the clock on air. “The golden hand over the ring on the outer circle shows the old time, beginning at dawn. This is our past. The golden hand that runs over the Roman numerals shows our time, here in Prague. This is our present. And the sun—do you see it over the curved golden lines?”

  She nodded.

  “What does it show?”

  “Is it God’s time?” she asked.

  He turned to her and smiled.

  “How clever you are. It shows us the Talmudic hour—the Sha’a Zemanit. It is part of the law for the Jewish people showing the passage of our time from sunrise to sunset. It measures the will of God for us to see another day. This is our future. The sun will rise, the sun will set. And God will turn the hands round the clock for his people to wake from sleep and worship in another day. The idea of God marking time for us is art in and of itself.”

  “But if it’s God’s clock, why is it here and not in heaven?”

  “Well, he left the clock here for us, as a gift. He wanted everyone who passes by—even little girls—to be able to follow time by the clock. It tells us when our work is done.”

  “And he calls us
to be with him. Is that why the skeleton moves when the hour chimes? We’re called to the afterlife when our work on earth is done?”

  “Such a question, Kája. A big question for such a little girl.”

  Kája slid her black buckle shoes together until the polished tips just touched. She stood a little straighter. “I am not little anymore,” she said, chin high. “I am grown up now.”

  He seemed to doubt her assertion and raised an eyebrow. “Are you? And at ten years old?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And will you paint this too? Or will you write one of your stories about God’s clock?”

  She pointed up to the tiny windows peeking out from atop the clock’s gilded face. “I want to write a story about the windows,” she said, having cupped her hand to whisper. “I think there are mysterious creatures that live there. We can’t see them, but they turn the clock’s insides. They make the skeleton move.”

  “You think this is true?” He tilted his chin, as if considering the matter. “What kind of creatures?”

  “Not scary creatures—good ones. Those who are stronger than the skeleton. They are masters over death. Angels, perhaps. Or sparrows, with golden wings like the hands of the clock.”

  “Sparrows are stronger than the skeleton?” He chuckled at the thought. “But how can that be?”

  “Sparrows soar on high; they are light and agile. They fly through the clouds unafraid and travel where the skeleton could never go. That is strength on little wings. And they fly about inside the tower, waiting for the sun to go down so they can open the windows and escape out into the night sky.”

  “And what do they do when they come out?”

  “They rain tiny blessings down on the Jews of Prague while we all are asleep. They shine light in the darkness.”

  He smiled, a soft look that just stirred the laugh lines around the corners of his eyes.

  “They sound like our Jeshua, perhaps? He shines light in the darkness too. He does so for all of his people. Do these little sparrows follow his command?”