Far To Go (16 page)

Marta, for her part, had picked a book about two Czech boys going to the market for Pepik; for the Bauers she had chosen a picture frame in which she had placed a photo of their son sitting on the front steps of the house in their old town. When Pavel saw it, his eyes filled with tears. “What a very thoughtful gift,” he said.

Even Anneliese seemed touched. Her fingers fluttered at her throat. “Marta,” she said, “you really should not have. This frame must have cost your whole—” But she stopped herself and said graciously, “Thank you very much, Marta.” She held the photo up and peered at it again. “It seems a long time ago,” she said, a peculiar look on her face. “Doesn’t it? If you think of everything that’s happened?” Marta knew Anneliese was thinking of Max. She had hoped he might join them for Christmas, but there was still no word from either him or Alžběta.

When the presents had all been opened, Pavel wanted to light the menorah. In the past when Chanukah fell at the same time as Christmas, the Jewish holiday was the one that got forgotten, but this year Pavel was determined.

“Aren’t we already . . . how many days—” Anneliese started.

Pavel brushed her away. He wasn’t sure, but they would light all eight candles to be safe. He also wanted to say the blessing, which was something that to Marta’s knowledge the Bauers had never done before.

Marta watched Pavel, with his eyes closed, chanting the Hebrew prayer. She was flabbergasted that he knew it by heart. Perhaps it had been taught to him as a boy? He threw in something he called the Shema—the Jewish prayer of God’s oneness, he said—for good measure. When he was finished he placed the menorah in the window. It was a mitzvah to do so, he said, but Marta saw Anneliese wince. She wouldn’t dare criticize her husband, not after what had happened, but then Pavel seemed to reconsider and moved the candle-holder back to the credenza, out of sight of people passing on the street. The lights from the Christmas tree, reflected in the wall of mirrors, filled the room to overflowing with brilliance. By contrast, the menorah seemed small and incidental. It flickered in the corner unnoticed.

Anneliese was behind closed doors, getting ready for the festivities. They were going to ring in the New Year at the home of Mathilde, her oldest friend from the
gymnasium
. Mathilde and her husband, Vaclav, who owned margarine factories, were having several couples over to celebrate. “Hitler or no Hitler,” Pavel said.

Anneliese finally emerged from her room, her face powdered and her hair piled on top of her head. A telegram arrived just as the Bauers were putting on their coats. Although it was sealed inside the usual envelope, Marta had a distinct impression that the delivery boy knew its contents. He furrowed his brow as he handed it over, as if he hated to be the bearer of bad news. Or perhaps it was just that every telegram these days contained bad news.

Pavel took the envelope from the boy.

“Is it Max?” Anneliese asked. She was wearing a clingy red dress Marta hadn’t seen before.

“Or Alžběta?”

“Pass me my . . .” Pavel nodded at his scarf, his eyes still on the telegram.

“Pavel. I’m speaking to you.”

“It’s your man.”

“I wish you would—”

“Your man Wilhelm.”

Anneliese froze with Pavel’s scarf in her hand. “The priest?”

“He’s been arrested.”

“Arrested? Why?”

“Forget the scarf,” Pavel said. “It isn’t even snowing.”

Anneliese glared at her husband. “Why was he arrested?”

“For baptizing Jews. Why else?” Pavel buttoned his coat quickly. “We’re late,” he said, without looking at Anneliese. They took turns kissing the top of their son’s head and went out the door.

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.