by Liz Tolsma
Boots sounded on the scarred wood floors. He once again donned his Nazi officer persona and went to meet his compatriots.
“Are the accommodations to your liking, sir?”
The boy’s name eluded him. “Ja, danke. That will be all for now.”
The house fell silent, and that was fine with him. His head pounded. Oh, to be home in his room with the smell of his mother’s cooking and the scent of edelweiss filling the air.
He sat in the old, overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room and sank into its depths. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warmth of Mutti’s potato soup in his middle.
His stomach growled. What had they left him to eat in this place? He wandered to the kitchen. Neat and spotless, just like the other rooms. The cabinets, however, produced little for dinner. He discovered a tin of ersatz coffee and put the pot on the stove to brew.
As he waited for the water to boil, a strange sound floated around him. Beautiful. Haunting.
Mozart, if he was correct. He listened a moment more. Yes, Violin Concerto Number Three.
And played to perfection, the technique impeccable. His mother loved music and often dragged him to symphony concerts. When he was a teenager, it had been against his will. First he was soothed, then he learned, then he appreciated. Now, reached out to recapture those days.
He needed that beauty.
Anna allowed the last note of the concerto to float on the air and die away. She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, letting the quiet wash over her.
For that instant, and that instant only, she was free. The world was a good and happy place.
Yes, it was risky to play when the Nazis declared it illegal for Jews to have instruments. But she kept her violin’s voice quiet. Right now, the music calmed her.
A knock on the door brought her crashing to earth like a flaming fighter plane. Her breath whooshed from her lungs.
These days, anyone might be on the other side. Did she get careless, lost in the music when she played? Did the Nazi downstairs hear her?
She glanced at Babička, sleeping in the chair, mouth wide open. Beside her sat the run-down brown suitcase, the leather handle worn, the fabric frayed at the edges. Would it even survive the trip to the camp?
Was this the time they waited for? Anticipated? Dreaded?
She wiped her hands on her deep blue skirt, sucked in a deep breath, and opened the door.
The officer from the street.
She locked her knees to keep them from failing her.
He strode into the flat, his eyes icy blue. In one sweep, he assessed the room. And them. He removed his peaked cap, an eagle on the crown, and tousled his dark-blond hair. He nodded at her. “Hauptmann Horst Engel. And you are?”
As she released the air from her lungs, she prayed the words would not squeak out of her throat. She never expected the Nazi deporting them to introduce himself. She answered in German, a language she and many Prague Jews were fluent in. “Anna Zadoková. And my grandmother, Jana Doubeková.”
Babička stirred and opened her eyes, startling for a moment.
He nodded in Babička’s direction, then returned his attention to Anna. “You played that music?”
She stepped back, grasping at a wobbly side table for support. He’d heard. How could she have been that reckless? What should she say? Denying it would only bring on his ire. Acknowledging it would, at the least, add their names to the deportation notices.
After a few moments of silence, Hauptmann Engel cleared his throat. “Bring your violin and come with me.”
She again glanced at the suitcases, packed, ready to go. And what about Babička? If only her voice worked. “Sir?” The word squeezed out between her tense vocal chords.
He turned toward her, his eyes the color of steel. “Ja?”
“My grandmother? And our suitcases?”
“The grandmother may come. The suitcases? You won’t need those where you are going.”
Anna draped Babička’s coat over her shoulders. The Nazi from downstairs may not allow them to take their valises to the camp, but she refused to let her grandmother freeze to death, no matter what the cost might be to herself. The cries of the family from the downstairs flat rang in her ears, though they were likely on a train by now, racing toward their awful destiny.
She grabbed her violin as he’d commanded and gave one last, long gaze at their suitcases. She itched to pull her grandmother’s heart medicine and vitamin tablets from them. Perhaps they would help Babička survive. For a little time, if nothing else.
As they followed Hauptmann Engel into the hall, she peered back into the little apartment they’d called home for the past three years, ever since the Nazis confiscated their large, comfortable flat in the Christian section of town. That one had had four bedrooms, a modern kitchen, a large, formal dining room with a crystal chandelier, even a spacious music room with Máma’s grand piano. The housekeeper had maintained it all in spotless fashion.
Then the Germans had forced her family into this tiny place on the edge of the Jewish Quarter—all except David, her older brother, who had moved into a flat with his intellectual friends, much to her parents’ consternation.
Still, they’d made it a home, and it showed. The zig-zag parquet floors shone, the windows in the living room’s bay gleamed, and the pillows on the well-worn flowered couch sat fluffed. The pungent tang of cabbage and vinegar hung in the air. The officers billeted here would think the family left for an outing and would return at the end of the day.
Anna tamped down the rising tide of tears. Over the past years, she had cried enough. At least she had her violin. In her head, even now, rang the notes of Mozart’s concerto. It quieted her heart.
Babička held onto Anna and grasped the hand-smoothed banister, her steps slow and halting. She hadn’t descended the stairs in months. These days, even Anna rarely did.
What would their friend, Paní Buraneková, say when she came on her usual Saturday to bring them food they could no longer buy for themselves? Would Hauptmann Engel lay in wait for her, ready to arrest her for assisting Jews? Anna forced herself to step forward. She shivered.
When they reached the first-floor landing, the soldier didn’t usher them through the entryway. Instead, he opened the door to the Schniz’s flat and motioned for them to enter.
Ne, it was his apartment now.
On trembling legs, she led Babička through the door and into a place laid out much the same as theirs. She removed her shoes, as did her grandmother. Before, when the Schniz’s lived here, she had visited them, had sat on the parquet floor in the living room and played with the little boy.
She dug her fingernails into her palms. Maybe the pain from the action would cover the pain in her heart.
“Welcome.” Hauptmann Engel opened the drapes on the bow window, inviting in the light and giving a view of the quiet, narrow street. He pointed to a spot in the bow. “Is this a good place for you to play? Do you have enough light? Didn’t you bring any music?”
Anna controlled the smile that wanted to break out on her face at his fussing. “Ja, this is fine. I don’t need any music. It is all in my head.” Though she’d just had the music before her, the hours upon hours she practiced fused the notes into her brain. She would never forget. No matter what the Nazis did to her.
She sat Babička on the green couch, took her violin from its case, and stood beside the window. Her fingers trembled. Would she even be able to play a single note with him sitting beside her grandmother, staring at her? Placing her in the window for all of Prague to see that she broke the law?
“You may begin.”
The music rose from deep inside her, swelling in her chest, commanding her fingers to draw the bow across the strings. It lifted her from this place and this time, to a spot where beauty lived. And then she closed her eyes and coaxed the notes from her instrument. The world disappeared as the melody rose and fell, intense, passionate, breath-robbing.
The final tone reverberated in the room. Hauptmann Engel’s applause jolted her back to the present—to the small flat on the edge of the Jewish section of Prague where a Nazi officer congratulated her on a job well done.
“Bravo, bravo. Shall we have another piece?” He glanced at Babička for approval. And she nodded. What other choice did she have?
“Do you know Vittorio Monti’s Csárdás? It’s such a beautiful Italian folk piece. I heard it performed in Rome once.”
“Ja, I know it.” She played it almost every day. Again, she lingered in the raptures of the haunting music until his cheering yanked her away.
“Come, sit. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. With a click, he opened the cabinet and shut it again. The water ran. When he returned, he handed her the glass, the drink moistening her dry mouth.
“You play like a master. Where did you study?”
She swallowed hard. “The Prague Conservatory. It was forced to close before I finished.”
“Ja, that is too bad. But you have a great deal of talent.”
“Danke.” She studied the Nazi, handsome in his olive uniform, an eagle over a star stitched just above the right pocket. His pale blue eyes glittered, like he took true pleasure in her recital. Never had a German been kind to them. What was going on?
He patted Babička’s gnarled hand. “You must be very proud of your granddaughter.”
“I am. The Lord blessed her with a wonderful gift. With the others gone, she is my joy.”
“And the rest of your family?”
Was he hunting for useful information? Lulling them into a sense of security while attempting to locate others to ship off to Terezín?
Then again, they didn’t have to worry. There was no one left for the Nazis to turn in. “They were deported this past winter.”
He leaned forward. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
How could he be sorry? How many Jews had he himself arrested and sent to an uncertain future?
“My brother and both of my sisters were promising musicians.”
“Ah, so your talent runs in the family. Did you play an instrument, too, Frau Doubeková?”
Babička’s dim gray eyes took on a dreamy luster. “The piano. I lived for a while in Vienna and studied there.”
“Did you know Gustav Mahler?”
“I met him once.”
“I’m impressed.”
Why would he be pleased Babička knew an Austrian Jewish composer?
“I played in many salons over the years, until I married my dear husband and the Lord gave us children. But always we had a piano in our home, and I spent many happy hours in front of the keyboard. My children and grandchildren grew up with music filling the house.”
“Where are they all now?”
“My son emigrated to the United States. My daughter, son-in-law, two granddaughters, and a grandson got their deportation notices.”
“I’m sure you miss them. But to grow up with music surrounding you . . .” He nodded, and a slow smile spread across his face, a deep crease curving from the side of his nose to his chin. “I didn’t always appreciate music. Over time, though, the rhythm of it filled me, and I grew to love it.”
Anna closed her eyes to stop thinking of him as handsome. And kind. That last image of her parents and sisters walking into the exhibition hall flashed in front of her. That was what Nazis did to those they considered lower than them. That was the kind of man he was.
He slapped his knees and rose. “Thank you for the private concert. I would like you to come and play for me every day after dinner.”
Again, she was stuck with no other option but to agree. There was no way she could get out of this without earning his wrath. Then one idea came along, and she held onto it. “My grandmother is very tired by that time of night, and I must help her get ready for bed.”
Babička flashed her a scowl. She didn’t like Anna’s lie.
“It won’t be late. You can bring her with you. I’m sure she would like to hear you play.”
“She hears me all day long.”
“Or I can come to your flat for the performance.”
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. A German officer in her apartment? Ne, she couldn’t allow him to get that close. “I will come to you.”
How much more would he demand of her? And how long before he tired of her music and sent them to Terezín?
“Halten sie.”
Patricie Kadlecová froze in place at the German soldier’s command, the strap of her grocery-filled shopping bag wrapped around her right hand. Behind her, a train whistle blew.
Was this the day? The day the Gestapo came for her and sent her to the very place she worked to keep her Jewish friends from?
It might well be.
Around her, the hustle and bustle of life in Prague continued. Families greeted friends and relatives coming to visit from other parts of the country. Sweethearts kissed each other good-bye as one or the other departed the city. Nazi soldiers patrolled the train station, their eagle eyes sharp, their German shepherds straining on their leashes to sniff out criminals.
Criminals like her, who went to the country for food she couldn’t get in the city—an illegal act she committed once a week, when she took the train to a small town, then a cart to a farm to purchase food and milk.
The officer approached her, no weapon in his hand. She shivered and clenched her fists. He held out a ration card. A stolen one.
Did he know?
Could he tell?
“You dropped this.” He waved it.
She snatched it and stuffed it into the bag of potatoes, onions, and bread, all covered with clothes to hide the contents from prying eyes. “Děkuji. I’m grateful.” She had been careless. The cards were precious, necessary to sustain life. And obtained at a great price.
The German, who spoke excellent Czech, flashed her a dazzling smile. Light brown hair peeked from beneath his hat, pulled down, obscuring his eyes. His features were angular. Hard. “Let me walk you to your destination, Fraulein . . .”
“Kadlecová.” Her stomach flipped like the trapeze artist at the circus she’d attended as a child. Why would he make such an offer? “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, Officer . . .”
“Hauptsturmführer Stefan Jaeger. It is no trouble at all.” He clasped her hand, his fingers clammy. He grabbed her bag from her. “Quite heavy.”
She nodded, instead of speaking in a trembling voice.
“So much for a single woman to carry.”
A statement, but it demanded an answer. “Books. I like to read.” All the lying she’d done as a child came in handy now.
“But it is such a burden to you. Let me help. Which way to your home?”
She gritted her teeth. What now? Her house hid secrets no Nazi officer should discover. “This way.” She pointed in a direction without any idea of where they would end up. She could bring him to Georg’s. He wasn’t home. But taking this soldier there was also a bad idea.
“My mother was from the Sudetenland and spoke Czech. I’ve been here since we annexed this area. Prague has enchanted me. It has such a cultural heart. Such a rich heritage.”
One he was trying to destroy. Patricie nodded. “I agree.”
“So, you have traveled?”
“Somewhat.” Why did she converse with this man? In addition to being much too forward, he was the enemy.
“Where?”
Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? “Austria. Germany. Switzerland.”
“That’s a good bit of wandering. Why those places?”
“I was a music student and toured with a small ensemble.” Why was she telling him all this?
“Ah. What instrument do you play?”
“The oboe. At least, I used to.” Because of a German decree, the conservatory stood shuttered and forlorn. The sting of it bit her chest. Her hands missed the smooth wood of her instrument, her lips lon
ged for the tickle of the reed.
“But you were able to go places.”
He hypnotized her. Her muscles relaxed, but she forced herself to remain on guard. He might have singled her out. Perhaps he already knew what she wanted to remain hidden. “I didn’t appreciate it like I should have.”
“I know what you mean. Now that I live here, I’m understanding more about the Czech way of life. About the people.”
Not enough to know that the Czech didn’t open up to strangers.
She led him in circles. She couldn’t keep doing this. Soon, he would spot the Charles Bridge for the second time and figure out her deception. Like the cogs of a machine, her mind whirled. Then she slapped her forehead. “Oh, I meant to purchase eggs. I need them for dinner. Thank you for your kind offer, but I won’t keep you.”
She attempted to pull her bag from his grasp, but he covered her hand and clung to it. “Have dinner with me on Friday.”
For the second time today, he stopped her in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. At Café Imperial. Give me your address, and I’ll send a car for you.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“This is an offer you can’t refuse.”
She tried in vain to take a deep breath. He narrowed his perfect Aryan eyes and pursed his lips into a straight line.
“I should be honored to join you.”
Should be honored. But instead, the hair on her arms bristled. What would happen to her if he discovered her secret?
The windshield wipers on Stefan Jaeger’s official car beat out a steady rhythm as he and Horst flew over the Czech countryside, the deluge obscuring much of the bucolic scene. Out there, farmland spread over the low hills. Gold and red tinged the edges of the leaves on the trees. Off in the distance, a train whistle blew.
Horst pressed his nose against the passenger-side window. Who was on that train? A family off on an autumn holiday? Jews headed the same place as him?
“I don’t see what going to Theresienstadt has to do with architecture.” Horst rubbed the door handle as he pushed back the urge to fling it open and jump out. He’d only have sixty kilometers to cover to get back to Prague.