The Twelve Little Cakes (36 page)

“Hello, was that you I could hear tapping a few minutes ago?” he asked. “I thought we had a woodpecker in the trees!”

He pulled his cassock above his knees and crossed the patch of deep grass at the side of the church.

“I've cleaned the Baby Rose's grave,” I said proudly. “Her parents went back to France after the war, so she's all alone. I'm going to plant yellow roses and water them every day.”

Father Eugene knelt down to read the inscription on the stone. “Renée Rose Rouelle,” he said. “That's a very pretty name. Very French.”

“And guess what?” I told him. “You know, my confirmation name? I don't have one. I was never baptized.”

“Really?” Father Eugene frowned. “But wait a minute . . . you're confirmed. You've taken communion.”

“My mother says that if you're going to believe in something, it's pretty silly unless you're given a choice,” I explained.

“Right, but you've taken communion. You've eaten the body of Christ,” he said in a serious voice I hadn't heard before. “You're not allowed to do that unless you've been baptized.”

“But I can get baptized!” I told him excitedly. “All I have to do is make up my mind.”

“No, no, it's a sin for an unbaptized person to take Holy Communion,” he said. “It goes against the laws of the Church. Are you quite sure about this?”

“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 longest 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.