by Alison Pick
Marta put Pepik to bed. There was a small fuss when he wanted to stay up until midnight, but she remained firm, and by the time she tucked him in he was so exhausted he fell asleep without even a story. She went into the kitchen and cleaned up the dishes, and then she listened to the president’s New Year’s address on the radio. It was easy to tell by Hácha’s voice that he was dreadfully sad. Despite everything that had happened, he said—despite the terrible events of the year—the people of Czechoslovakia still stood on their own land. But would they still be able to say so this time next year?
Marta made herself a cup of linden tea and sat down beside the Christmas tree, thinking about Father Wilhelm. Arrested, Pavel had said. For giving out baptismal certificates. She could picture the priest as though he stood before her, the bald patch in the shape of a kippah, the bony fingers interlaced as though in prayer. He’d been so kind to them, she thought, offering to help not only little Pepik but his mother as well. How many others were out there for whom he’d done the same?
Would the authorities now come looking for Pepik? It was certainly possible; an illegal baptism was sure to have repercussions. She shivered, wondering what exactly they might be. She lifted her cup to her lips, but the tea had cooled and the leaves tasted musty, too sweet. People, she knew, were just disappearing these days; it wasn’t unheard of for someone to be present one evening and gone by the break of the new day. Taken. But could it happen to a child? To Pepik?
And where was Max? He’d promised to be in touch.
Marta pushed her teacup aside. A sick feeling rose in her stomach: too much carp and vánočka. She glanced down at Pepik’s train where it wound between the legs of the table. Pepik had incorporated some of the lanterns from the Christmas tree into the scene; they stood in for lampposts in the little nameless town where his clothespin civilians went about their lives. One of the lead soldiers had fallen on its back and was staring up at her. Its mouth frozen open. It looked as if it were shouting something. As if it were trying to give a warning.
Max’s letter did not arrive until March. Pavel held it close to his face and read it aloud to his wife: “I trust you enjoy your books as usual. The one before The Castle is excellent.”
“Whatever does he mean?” Anneliese asked. “He’s talking about books? Now?”
“It was posted six weeks ago, in January.”
“Was it?”
“He seems to be writing in code.”
“The Castle. By Kafka?”
“That must be the one.”
“And what comes before it . . . Amerika.”
“That was after.”
“The Trial,” Anneliese said.
“The Trial. What’s the plot?”
She looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “The narrator is arrested for a crime that isn’t named.”
“For no crime.”
“Exactly.”
“I think we know what’s happened to Max.”
Anneliese was thrown into a panic. “What should we do?”
Marta was in a corner of the room, dusting the buffet. She saw Pavel spread his hands out in front of him: Don’t ask me.
The Bauers were sitting at opposite ends of the heavy Victorian sofa; the wall of mirrors doubled them. Everything the Bauers did in the new flat was copied by their doppelgangers: When the Bauers ate, their twins did the same. When they spoke, when they argued, so did the twins. It was as if someone had thought to make a copy of each of them in case something should happen to the originals.
“We should at least tell Alžběta,” Anneliese said to Pavel.
“But how can we tell her if we don’t know where she is?”
Anneliese reached for her Chanel purse and lit a cigarette.
“We could call Ernst,” Pavel said, “to ask what he thinks.”
Marta lowered her eyes, intent on her feather duster, but Anneliese was at the phone immediately, her cigarette left smoking in the ashtray. She spoke into the black horn in the middle of the wooden box on the wall and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “The operator says there’s a line through Frankfurt,” she said to Pavel.
“Our calls don’t go through Frankfurt. Doesn’t she know that?”
Anneliese put the earpiece back in its cradle and went over to the small fire in the hearth. She picked up the bellows and pumped vigorously.
“I had lunch with Mathilde.” She turned around to look at her husband.
“And what did the Queen of Sheba have to say for herself?”
“Eight thousand crowns will buy passage to Uruguay.”
“‘Oh, gazelle, her eyes have captured my heart’!” Pavel sang a line of the popular song.
“They’re thinking of going. She and Vaclav.”
“Are there margarine factories in Uruguay?”
“Maybe they’ll open one. It isn’t the point. The point is to get out.” Anneliese pumped the bellows for emphasis.
Marta moved a chiselled glass candy dish aside, along with a china bell—the kind used to summon a maid—and dusted beneath them. She had noticed over the past weeks that Anneliese’s infatuation with Prague was wearing off, like the novelty of a younger lover. And why wouldn’t it? The beautiful opera house had been closed. Almost nobody wanted to meet her for cakes at the Louvre Café: everyone had left or else was busy trying to. And now this news about Max. Arrested. For no reason. Where was he being held?
Pavel stayed seated, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled in front of him. “I did hear . . .” he said to his wife. “There’s something I heard.”
Anneliese put the bellows down. She smoothed down her skirt.
“There’s a man,” Pavel said. “A stockbroker. British.”
“Winton?”
“Poor bugger. The markets can’t be good.”
“I mentioned him months ago. Don’t you remember? Vaclav and Mathilde got their girls on his list.”
“What about Uruguay?”
Anneliese sighed. “They’re exploring every option, Pavel. That’s what people are doing.”
“I was thinking of contacting him. Winton,” Pavel said, his forehead resting on the heels of his hands. “To see if we can’t put Pepik on the list as well.”
Marta set the bell back down on the buffet; it made a tinkling sound. “It might be a good idea,” she said without thinking. Where she had got the notion that her opinion mattered she didn’t know, but it felt almost natural, somehow, to voice it. Pepik was her responsibility, after all. Shouldn’t she have some say in the decision? “It might be a good idea to put Pepik on the list,” she said again.
Pavel was looking at her, surprised, Marta thought, but not disapproving. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed almost impressed.
“Do you think?” he asked. His eyebrows were lifted, his face relaxed. But Anneliese had turned away from both of them, frowning out the window as though she’d noticed something unfolding below that required her full attention, and Marta grew suddenly self-conscious. She nodded once at Pavel, and moved back to the buffet to dust beneath Alžběta’s houseplants.
Anneliese fished her cigarette out of the ashtray and took a slow pull. “Why don’t we go together?” she asked Pavel, as though Marta hadn’t spoken.
Pavel turned back to his wife, the muscles along his jawline tightening discernably. “It’s not so simple, Liesel,” he said. “You need an exit visa. You need proof of citizenship. The lineups at the embassies are from here to Vienna. You need an entry permit for another country.” His eyes darted briefly back to Marta.
“Not for Britain,” Anneliese said. “Not until the first of April.” And she was right, Marta knew. In the wake of the Munich Agreement, legislation had been passed that allowed entrance into England without a permit. A little window; an apology for the betrayal.
You still needed an exit permit from Czechoslovakia, however.
The Bauers talked this over quietly. Pavel thought he could get hold of one.
�
��With a bribe?” Anneliese asked.
Pavel touched the sofa. “This needs to be reupholstered.”
“Not to be crass.”
“With money,” he said. “Yes.”
“Even without the Ariernachweis?”
“That’s hard for anyone these days. So many families have a grandmother born out of wedlock.”
In the mirror over the buffet Marta saw Pavel get up. He took his pipe and tobacco pouch from the credenza and hunched over the table, filling the little bowl and tamping it down. When the pipe was lit, he went back towards the phone to give it another try. The operator said there was a line through České Budějovice, the famous beer town, right away. The earpiece was at the end of a long cord, and Pavel fidgeted with it, waiting. He was put through and explained to Ernst immediately about the letter from his brother-in-law Max. There was a long pause while he listened to Ernst speak.
“Trieste?” Pavel said finally. “Hostage?” He held his pipe away from his face. There was another long pause. Marta could well imagine the voice Ernst would be using—patient, as though speaking to a child.
“You really think I could be taken hostage?” Pavel asked.
He waited for his friend’s response. After a few moments he tapped at the receiver on the wooden box. “Ahoj?” he said. “Ernst?”
But the line was broken.
The following morning Pavel surveyed his family around the breakfast table, each of them in front of a setting of silver. “How about a trip to the country?” he asked.
Anneliese looked up from her porridge.
“It’s March seventh,” Pavel said. “The anniversary of Masaryk’s birthday. Let’s make a pilgrimage to Lány.”
“What about the factory?” Anneliese asked.
But at the mention of an expedition Pepik had straightened in his chair and plunged his spoon back into his cereal bowl. “I want to go in the automobile,” he said forcefully. He was between schools, and lonely at home. There had been a call from the principal to say his Czech wasn’t good enough and perhaps he’d fit in better at the Jewish school. Pavel was furious—Czech was his son’s first language—but what could they do? Even he saw that to protest would worsen their case. You didn’t want to make a single unnecessary enemy.
“Well?” Pavel said.
“Sounds fine to me,” Marta said. “I’ll make some chlebíčky.” She looked over at Anneliese for confirmation, but Anneliese had pushed back her chair and risen from the table. “Have a nice time,” she snapped at the three of them, the circles of pink on her cheeks growing brighter.
“Liesel—” Pavel started, tenderly, but Anneliese interrupted him. “I’m not going. We’re on the brink of war and all you can think about is Masaryk. News flash! Tomáš Masaryk is dead!” She was refusing to meet her husband’s eye. Furious with him for broaching the subject without asking her first. Or furious about some other transgression Marta wasn’t aware of.
She knew that in another lifetime Pavel would have tried to convince his wife, but in the wake of Pepik’s baptism and everything else that had happened he seemed unable to summon the energy. “Nobody wants to go without you,” he said half-heartedly. He turned to Pepik. “It won’t be any fun without Mamenka, right, buster?” But Pepik’s nod was uncertain; he couldn’t make sense of what was going on between his parents.
“The automobile,” he said.
“I’m not going,” Anneliese repeated.
Marta groped around for a way to extract herself as well. “Why don’t you two gentlemen go together? The King and the Crown Prince.” But it was too late. Pavel had given Anneliese a chance and now he hardened against her. It had become a contest of wills. “Nonsense,” Pavel said. “There’s no reason for you to miss out, Marta. Go and pack those sandwiches. And a Thermos of cocoa for Pepik.”
She had no choice but to do what she was told.
Marta was relieved when they finally got in the car and left Anneliese’s fuming behind. She felt bad about Anneliese—she felt she should feel bad—but she couldn’t deny her excitement at the chance to ride in the front seat. Pavel was freshly shaven and had combed pomade through his hair. He was wearing field corduroys and a pair of cowhide gloves. He turned left at Belcredi Street, left again at Patočkova, and slowly made his way out to the main stretch of road. He was telling her about the Nuremberg Laws—the moment the occupation was a fait accompli the Germans had started drafting similar legislation for the Sudetenland—but he seemed for the moment to be discussing a problem he knew himself capable of solving. Pavel believed in himself, Marta thought. He weighed his options, made a decision, and then acted. What else did she know about him? Ordinary things, she thought, but the kinds of things that counted, that made people themselves. She began to list them in her head: He read the business articles first. His drink of choice was slivovitz. He’d begun to carry his Star of David in his pocket . . .
When they drove up the long gravel road to Lány, Marta saw they weren’t the only ones with the idea of honouring Masaryk on his birthday. There must have been a thousand people who had shown up at the dead president’s country residence to pay their respects. She hoped she would not be called upon to give any political opinions, but the atmosphere outside the estate was more conducive to a carnival than a debate. There were children on their fathers’ shoulders, boys in suspenders tossing a bright red ball between them, elderly men leaning on wooden canes. Pavel looked at her across the gearshift; seeing the outpouring of nationalism had bolstered his mood further. “Remarkable,” he said to Marta, “isn’t it?” His eyes shining.
Marta nodded: Yes, remarkable.
They got out of the car and were met with a wall of sound. Everyone was talking excitedly, it seemed, in families, in little groups of three and four. Marta heard a man in a general’s uniform—the Czech colours in his buttonhole—quoting Hitler: “The Czechs are a miserable little race of pygmies.”
“He said that?” another man asked.
“Prague will be occupied. There’s no getting out of it.”
“It’s a done deal in his mind,” the general answered. “He’s already moved on to Danzig.”
“Do you know what else he says about us Czechs? That we’re like bicycle racers: we bow from the waist but down below we never stop kicking.”
“That’s true,” said a man with skin like crumpled tissue paper. “It was true in the Great War.”
“The Brits modelled their Bren guns on our ZGB 33. The ones made in Brno.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Bren—Brno and Enfield,” the general said proudly.
“If only we’d had the chance to use them!”
The men were like little boys with their hands tied behind their backs, Marta thought, denied the chance to stand up to the schoolyard bully. They longed to fight the Germans, longed desperately, and she knew Pavel thought it still might happen. He believed there was still a chance, however remote, that France and England would come to their senses.
Pepik’s face was pressed into Marta’s hip. He tugged at her arm and she lifted him up, then thought better of it and put him back down. He couldn’t depend on her forever. “Why don’t you go play with those children?” she said, pointing to a group of boys racing around the perimeter of the field. But Pepik just whimpered and pulled at her arm again.
“You’re too big,” she said. But she let him rest against her and kept a hand lightly on the top of his head.
They waited in line for their turn to pay respects at the grave. Then they ate the ham-and-swiss chlebíčky. Pepik fell asleep in the car on the way home, a line of cocoa dried above his lip. Marta thought that he looked a little like the Führer himself—the small moustache, the thin shoulders—but she figured it was best not to point this out to Pavel. The automobile sped through the countryside. A short gust of snow turned to sleet—later she would think it had been a sign of things to come—and Pavel turned on the car’s single wiper. They rode for a while in silence with the steady thwac
k of it like a heartbeat, just there in front of them. Marta leaned her head back, letting her eyes close, luxuriating in the time with nothing to do but be carried along. The road whizzed past beneath them, the tires making a rhythmic thumping. She had almost dozed off when Pavel looked over at her and said, “I know very little about you.”
Marta’s eyes snapped open. There was a slight tone of accusation in his voice: how could she have worked for him for so long and managed to stay opaque?
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. For some reason she felt herself flushing.
Pavel was looking at her, smiling. “A woman of mystery,” he said.
She looked back at him, at both his hands on the wheel.
“No, it’s just . . .” She faltered. Why did she want to keep quiet? It was not quite true that she had nothing to hide, but suddenly she felt that she might tell him anything at all. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
Pavel nodded, satisfied she’d acquiesced. “What do I want to know. Let’s see. You were born in Moravia?”
“Ostrava.”
“A textile town. Did your father work at the factory?”
She shook her head. “Farm.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Your father owned a farm?”
“No. He was the farmhand.”
He nodded, understanding.
“We slept in the . . . there was a loft over the stable.”
Pavel made a face as if he’d just bitten down on something distasteful, or maybe, she thought, he did not want to think of her there.
“Sisters? Brothers?” he asked.
“One sister.” Marta paused. “She died.”
Pavel cocked his head to one side. “Oh?” he said. “I’m sorry.” He seemed to be considering. “So you and Pepik have something in common,” he said finally.
Marta hadn’t thought of it in this way before. “We also both love trains,” she said, and was surprised by the confession, by the fact that she kept confessing. It was true. She took Pepik to the train station for her own pleasure as well as his. A train meant escape. The possibility of leaving. That forlorn sound that the whistle unspooled, as it drifted out across the dark countryside, seemed so lonesome, and yet so right. It was the exact sound of the emptiness in the centre of her being, like waking up and crying out in the middle of the night and hearing another sadness call back.