“How big a sin?” I asked nervously. “A little one or a very big one?”
Father Eugene shot me a fond but troubled smile. He lifted his cassock and walked back through the grass.
“So let me get this straight,” he said at the rectory door. “You haven’t been baptized, but you think you might like to be?”
I nodded enthusiastically.
“Jezis Marja,” he sighed. “Let me ask a few questions and see what I can do.” He disappeared inside the rectory and latched the door behind him.
A few days later, I was on my way to collect milk from Mrs. Backyard’s farm, when I ran into Mrs. Jandova and Mrs. Machova having an over-the-fence conversation on the walking path. Mrs. Machova was a Communist who went to the beauty salon once a week instead of church, but she and Mrs. Jandova loved to exchange gossip from their different communities.
“Speak of the devil,” Mrs. Machova said slyly.
Mrs. Jandova glanced up the hill, but instead of smiling and saying hello, she turned her back on me and continued to talk to Mrs. Machova.
“Hello, Mrs. Jandova!” I called out.
Mrs. Jandova ignored me.
I carried my milk pails past the two women, and could feel their eyes burning into my back. They had been talking about the devil, but they might as well have been talking about me. Father Eugene had said that I committed a sin, but he didn’t tell me how big it was, and I was starting to think that it might be very big. Big enough to make Mrs. Jandova not talk to me. Big enough to make the whole town talk about nothing else.
Mrs. Backyard had just finished milking when I got to the farm, and she was sitting on her stool looking very tired. A few weeks earlier, she had told me that she was too tired to answer all my questions, so I tried not to talk too much when I came around for the milk.
“Hello, Mrs. Backyard!” I said. “How are things today?”
“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Everything adds up to an old slipper as usual.”
This was a popular Czech expression, but it always made me laugh.
“But what’s this I’ve been hearing about you?” she asked. “According to Mrs. Simkova, they’re sending someone from Rome to reconsecrate the church because of this business with you taking communion.”
“From Rome?” I gasped. “Someone from Rome is coming here?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Mrs. Backyard said. “I’ll believe it when I see it, but you’ve certainly managed to set a few tongues wagging. Poor Mrs. Jandova has been crying for days.”
“But I didn’t know!” I cried. “Nobody told me!”
“Well, exactly,” Mrs. Backyard sniffed. “I’ve always said that your parents let you run wild. Maybe this will give them something to think about.”
I left the farm and carried my milk across the hill, and was about to turn into the path next to The Philosopher’s house, when I saw Hugo Kraus lurching up the lane. Hugo was the oldest of the three brothers. He had a bristly black beard and wild, seventies-style hair.
“Ah, it’s the little blasphemer,” he said. “We’re going to have to rebuild the church because of you.”
He paused in front of the fence hedge, panting.
“Do you know what happens to little heathen girls who consume the body of Christ?” he asked. “They go to Hell. Two hundred years ago, they would have burned you at the stake for being a witch!”
He laughed heartily, and I could smell cigarettes and beer on his breath.
I edged around him and then ran home in terror, spilling milk over my dress and shoes. I had been attending church for almost five months, and one of the best things about going was the knowledge that I would be safe in December when Saint Mikulas and the devil came to our house. But now, Hugo Kraus had called me a witch. I had not only committed a terrible sin against the Church, but I’d also been given an after-school detention for tearing down a Communist poster. This was my worst year ever. Mikulas would look up my behavior and surely agree to let Cert take me down to Hell. I would have to say good-bye to my parents and I would never get to dance in Swan Lake. I took the milk down to the kitchen and went looking for my mother. But I could hear her and my dad talking quietly in the living room and I understood that they had troubles of their own, so I went up to my room and sat on my bed and cried.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, I put on my purple dress and went to the Jandas’ house, but Terezka and her grandmother weren’t there. They had gone to church without me. I walked down the path to the War Memorial and sat underneath the chestnut tree, watching the congregation arrive. I could see them and they could see me, but nobody crossed the street to invite me in. Everyone in town was gossiping about me, but no one from the church had come to talk to my parents, not even Father Eugene. It felt like I had been banished. I spoke to my little god every day, but I wasn’t sure if he had forgiven me. I needed Father Eugene to tell me what to do.
I sat beneath the chestnut tree for most of the service, then I went to visit the Baby Rose’s grave. I hadn’t planted any flowers, because I was too scared to go to church, but I tidied up the plot and wiped the headstone with my sleeve. I sat on the edge of the grave and willed Father Eugene to come outside. Then I finally summoned my courage and knocked on the rectory door. After a few moments, Father Eugene unlatched it. He was still wearing his cassock.
“Ah, there you are,” he smiled. “You weren’t at mass today. I was wondering where you were.”
“Mrs. Jandova didn’t wait for me,” I said in a small voice. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to come.”
“Of course you’re allowed,” Father Eugene said. “As a matter of fact, I have some news from the archbishop in Prague.”
“It’s not my fault!” I sobbed. “I didn’t mean for someone from Rome to have to come and rebuild the church! I really didn’t know! No one told me I wasn’t allowed to have communion! Mrs. Jandova didn’t say anything about me being baptized!”
“Someone from Rome is coming?” Father Eugene asked. “I haven’t heard about this.”
“Mrs. Simkova told Mrs. Backyard,” I sniffed. “And Hugo Kraus said that if it was two hundred years ago, they would have burned me at the stake for being a witch!”
“I see.” Father Eugene shuddered. He sat down on the rectory steps and motioned me to sit beside him. “I should have talked to you sooner, but I’ve only just heard back from Prague,” he said. “It is a great sin for you to have taken communion, but if you get baptized, God will forgive you”—he smiled ruefully—“and us for this mistake.”
“So I won’t have to go to Hell?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” he replied. “So. Would you like to be baptized?”
“Yes, please!” I said without hesitation.
“Very well,” Father Eugene said. “I’ve taken the liberty of already setting a date. You will be formally baptized on the thirteenth of December.”
“The thirteenth?” I said. “But that’s too late!”
“Too late?” The priest looked puzzled. “Why is it too late?”
“Because Cert is coming!” I cried. “Saint Mikulas will be here on the fifth and he always leaves the door open! Please, Father Eugene! Please, can I be baptized before the fifth? If you don’t baptize me, Cert is going to sneak into our house and he’ll take me down to Hell for sure!”
“Ah, of course. Angels and Devils Night,” Father Eugene smiled. “I’m sorry, Dominika, but the thirteenth is really the earliest I can manage. Believe me, I want to get this sorted out as quickly as you do, but it takes time to organize a baptism. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
“But what am I going to do? If the devil finds me, I might not be here on the thirteenth!”
Father Eugene looked away for a moment and I saw his shoulders quiver. When he looked back at me, it was with a perfectly straight face.
He made the sign of the cross on my forehead.
“I will pray for you,” he said.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK was the lon
gest week of my life. Every day seemed to last forever, and when it was over, I was one day closer to the Eve of Saint Mikulas. I found it hard to concentrate at school and ballet. I searched the house for good places to hide, and tried to explain the enormity of the problem to my parents, who somehow didn’t seem too worried. My dad even made a few jokes about it until my mother told him to shut up. I couldn’t believe it. This was really their fault, and they didn’t seem to care. I read my bible and asked my little god to protect me, and whenever I went to collect the milk, I would talk to him as I walked across the hill. I told him that I was very sorry and that if he would make this one exception and not let Cert inside our house, I would be good for the rest of my life. I would continue to get excellent grades at school, and when I grew up, I would be a kind and noble person. I would fix my parents’ house and buy my dad a new car. Please, please, please. Forgive me just this once.
“Hello, Dominika,” a familiar voice said. “Are you talking to yourself ?”
I looked up in alarm. Jan Kraus and his dog were walking up the path.
“No,” I blushed. “I’m talking to my little god.”
I liked Jan Kraus so much I was very shy around him.
“Your little god?” The Philosopher smiled. “Are you asking him to tell the Baby Jesus which presents you would like him to put under your tree?”
“No. I’m asking him to not let Cert take me down to Hell,” I said.
“Really?” Mr. Kraus laughed. “Why do you think Cert is going to take you to Hell?”
I explained everything as best as I could. When I got to the part where Hugo Kraus called me a witch, the amused look fell off The Philosopher’s face.
“I see,” he said quietly.
He walked with me to Mrs. Backyard’s gate, testing and rejecting various ideas, trying to devise a strategy for a seven-year-old girl.
“Are you quite sure Cert will sneak in?” he asked.
“He always does,” I told him. “He always knows where to look, too.”
“Of course. Your parents help you hide.”
“My dad helps me, but it never does any good.”
“Right. So what can you tell me about the devil? Is there anything he’s afraid of?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think Cert is afraid of anything.”
“What about holy water from the font in the church?” Mr. Kraus suggested. “He’s afraid of that, isn’t he?”
“He is!” I said excitedly. “He’s not allowed to touch it!”
“Exactly!” The Philosopher grinned. “So if you had some holy water and threw it at him, he would have to run away, wouldn’t he?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Doesn’t he burst into flames?”
In the Czech fairy tales they showed on TV, Cert would scream and explode whenever he came in contact with water that had been blessed. People were always throwing it at him. Aside from baptisms, this seemed to be the point of holy water. There was a full font in the Cernosice church.
Mr. Kraus reached down to stroke his greyhound behind the ears. “So here’s what you do,” he said. “You get some holy water and you wait for Cert to come. When he comes, you throw the holy water at him and say ‘Apage, Satanas!’ which means, ‘Go away, Satan!’ Can you remember that?”
“Apage, Satanas!” I shouted.
“Very good. You throw the water and yell ‘Apage, Satanas!’ and then you run and hide, but whatever you do, don’t tell your parents where you’re going to hide.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Trust me. It’ll be a surprise,” he smiled. “Do they all come in and have a drink in the living room?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Well, try to hide in the living room after you’ve thrown the holy water. My guess is, you’ll never be afraid of the devil again.”
And, with his trademark smile, he left me there at the gate. I watched him stroll down the lane with his greyhound beside him.
WHEN THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER finally arrived, I was terribly frightened, but excited as well. I had a little jar of holy water from the church, and knew exactly where I was going to hide. No one would think of looking for me under the couch, because there was hardly any room, but I was small enough to fit. I knew, because I had practiced. I stared at my textbooks and counted the minutes until the end of school, then I came home and had an early supper and refused my dad’s offer to help me find a place to hide. Instead, I sat in the stairwell and listened for the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow. Saint Mikulas always started at the bottom of the hill, so we were one of the last houses he would visit. It seemed like an eternity before the bell rang and my father answered the door. I could hear him greeting Saint Mikulas and the angel, while Cert laughed and rattled his chain in the background, and then I distinctly heard my dad tell Cert to take his shoes off. I tiptoed into the corridor with my jar of holy water, and watched in amazement as the devil stepped out of his boots. He was still huge and terrifying, with big red horns and eyes as black as coal, but there was something very wrong about him taking off his shoes.
“Apage, Satanas!” I yelled, running up the corridor. “Apage, Satanas! Go away, Satan!” I threw the holy water and hit Cert squarely in his chest, and leaped back, expecting him to burst into flames. Instead, he merely looked surprised.
“Why isn’t she hiding?” he asked my dad.
“I have no idea,” my father replied.
“Apage, Satanas! You bad devil!” I cried again, then ran through the house as fast as I could and crawled beneath the couch. After a few moments, Saint Mikulas and his companions followed my dad into the living room. They were talking seriously like adults, and all I could see was their feet. My mother came up with a tray of drinks from the kitchen, and I could hear the clinking of glasses above me.
“Won’t you please sit down?” my mother asked. “I’ll go and see if I can find Dominika.”
Cert and Saint Mikulas sat heavily on the couch, while my dad and the angel occupied the two big lounge chairs. The devil was literally sitting on top of me. His feet were so close, I could have reached out and touched them.
“Your little girl is growing up,” Saint Mikulas remarked.
“Yes, she’s a handful,” my father agreed. “She’s keeping them busy down at the school.”
“So I’ve heard,” the devil said. “I bet that was holy water she threw at me just then. I’ve been doing this for six years, and it’s the first time anyone’s tried a crazy stunt like that! Apage, Satanas!” The couch rocked with his laughter.
“Do you have time for a refill?” my father asked.
“Of course!” the three visitors said in unison.
And, right then, I recognized the devil’s socks. They were Mr. Caesar’s green football socks, and the laugh above me sounded a lot like Mr. Caesar’s, too. This was very reassuring, but very troubling as well. Right up until the moment when I realized that the devil was really Mr. Caesar, I had truly believed in Cert and Saint Mikulas. Most children growing up under communism did, because the fifth of December was an evening the community took seriously. It was a Czech tradition that dated back many hundreds of years, and was not commercialized in the same way that the Christian holidays are commercialized in the West. Prior to the Revolution, thousands of parents throughout the country dressed up in homemade costumes and handed out sweets to the kids in their villages. It was one night in the year when neighbors could be neighbors without the illuminated head of Karl Marx looking over their affairs.
I studied Mr. Caesar’s socks and thought about climbing out and telling him that I was sorry for throwing the holy water at him, but then my mother’s feet appeared and I could hear her telling the neighbors that she couldn’t find me anywhere.
“Let’s go, Dasha,” Saint Mikulas said to the angel. “I need to get home and make some eggnog for the kids.”
He stood up and thanked my parents for their hospitality.
“Tell Dominika w
e ’ll see her next year,” he said. “I guess she’s getting a bit old for this, isn’t she? Mary doesn’t even bother hiding these days. She just asks for her gingerbread as soon as we walk in the door.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Could it be true that Saint Mikulas was really Mary Hairy’s dad?
“Apage, Satanas!” Mr. Caesar laughed.
The springs creaked above my head and three pairs of socks marched out of the room. My parents escorted our neighbors to the door, then they switched off the lights and went downstairs to the kitchen to sit in front of the warm stove. I lay under the couch in the darkness for a while and thought about my little god.
If Cert and Saint Mikulas were really the neighbors in disguise, then maybe there wasn’t any Heaven and Hell. Maybe the posters in the classroom were right. Maybe religion was something that clever men like Hugo Kraus used to frighten people with, just like the Communists. I had spent a whole week being afraid, and neither my parents nor Father Eugene had done anything about it. The whole thing was a game. No wonder my sister didn’t take the church seriously.
I suddenly felt very sad.
If my little god wasn’t real, whom was I going to talk to when I was lonely? The world would be such a big and scary place without him. I crawled out from the couch and walked over to the window. The sky was dark and empty, and there was no evidence anyone was up there, but I found myself praying to my little god, nonetheless.
Hello, my little god,
I really hope that you exist,
because I would like to continue talking to you, you know?
I like going to church and singing in the choir every Sunday.
It’s nice to meet people and it gives me something to do.
And did I tell you that I’m going to plant roses on the
Baby Rose’s grave?
I hope they will make her happy.
Thank you for making me happy.
Thank you thank you thank you.
Amen.
The Twelve Little Cakes Page 27