by Tricia Goyer
The hairs on the back of Amity’s neck stood up. “It’s not as if the children or their parents have asked for this. They are helpless victims.”
Andrew shrugged. “They worry these children will bring problems into their homes.”
Amity stood up and removed her coat and hung it on one of the hooks as a new fervor surged through her. The stove was crackling, radiating heat. If so many others would not do something, she would, even if it made her uncomfortable. Even if she had to do it alone.
“And how much does it cost to sponsor a child?” she asked, wondering if perhaps the cost was the most prohibitive part.
“Fifty pounds, which is a lot, considering most families make only ten times that a year. And that is just to file the paperwork. The families must also be able to support the children until they are eighteen.”
“If that is the case, what is the fifty pounds for?”
“A prepayment for the child’s return to their home country someday. When it is safe, of course.”
Amity nodded. Will that ever be the case for any of these children? Only if a miracle happens.
“And you really are going to put me in charge of making this list? Can’t I take a simpler role? What about doing the kind of work I did in Chicago, handing out blankets and bowls of soup?” That she knew she could do.
Andrew approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “That would help them for a moment, but it would do nothing to help with what they need most—an escape.”
She touched the top button of her blouse as the severity of the word struck her. Then she moved her fingers to her throat, trying to breathe, overwhelmed with the responsibility she was about to take on. She was thankful now that she hadn’t known what she was going to be asked to do before she’d come. She probably never would have had enough courage to travel to Prague. But now that she was here, she couldn’t walk away. “Where do we start? What do I do first?”
“Today you can get settled. Tomorrow we’ll visit some of the camps. I need to head back to London in less than a week, but before I go I’m going to take you to meet my friends at the British legation. Dress nicely when we go there. It’s at Thun Palace, and you’ll be meeting several officials.”
“You should have warned me. I would have packed differently.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. You always manage to turn heads no matter what you’re wearing. I think you’ll become a special friend to Mr. Gibson, the passport control officer. Your list will make his job easier too. They, too, want to see as many children as possible get out of Hitler’s grip alive.”
NINE
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Sunday, December 18, 1938
Konrád sat at the window of the small apartment overlooking the Vltava River. A muffled noise sounded from behind him. “Please, Emil, you do not need to whine like a puppy. I told you we will talk as soon as I finish my cigarette.”
He lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. The tobacco was strong, dark. He knew being in Prague would have its benefits. This was one of them. There was no rationing as of yet. Lots of luxuries to enjoy.
Konrád sat in a rickety wooden chair, his leg crossed over his knee, and stared out at the automobiles that wove through the narrow cobblestone streets and stone bridges. He’d just arrived in Prague and had found an apartment. His plan was coming together perfectly.
Finding this enemy of the German state now bound before him had been the hardest part. Now that he’d located him, using Emil as a mole to find the others would be the easy part.
He pulled the list from his pocket and read it again. There were twenty names, and that was just the beginning. There seemed to be an endless number of men, and some women, considered important enemies of the German state. They hid around this city like cockroaches, scurrying to stay out of view, but Konrád would not mind tracking them into dark corners. First, though, he had the matter of hidden treasure to deal with. He had enough time and resources to benefit both himself and his superiors.
Konrád had been given a healthy bank account, but he’d rather inflict injury than pay for information. Fear worked better than bribes any day.
He finished the cigarette and then flicked it into the ashtray, letting it smolder. Next to the ashtray sat his pistol. From the terror on Emil’s face, Konrád doubted he’d have to get rough with the man. Threats of him being hunted down if he tried to leave the country would keep Emil in Prague. And a promise of receiving an exit document in a few months’ time would ensure that Emil didn’t stray far from his side.
Konrád tapped his fingers on the windowsill in a steady rapping. “So, from what I’ve learned, your sister and nephew have already made it to London. How very fortunate. You were one of the few who projected clearly into the future, sensing the danger to come. Do what I ask, and I will release you to join them.” He turned, glancing over his shoulder. “I will free you from your ropes soon, but if you run it will be impossible to cross the border. The only way you’ll be able to leave and join your family is to provide me with the information I need.”
The man’s eyes widened, and Konrád knew he had his attention.
“You may be wondering what type of information I need. There are some people I need to find. You may know some of them personally. After all, you all worked so hard together, speaking out against the Nazi party, building a resistance network, smuggling men and goods out of the country, and pleading with outside help to support your cause.”
The man looked down and finally relaxed against the ropes that held him tight, as if accepting defeat.
“Ah, you did not know we were watching so closely, did you? I’m also sure you didn’t realize one of our own had infiltrated your group. And just to think, you considered them all friends, compatriots, didn’t you?”
Konrád tapped his chin and then rose and moved toward the man. “And maybe the traitor is even the one who found a place for your sister and nephew. I believe they are now in North Highlands, yes?”
Tears filled the man’s eyes, and a low moan escaped.
What a weakling. People shouldn’t be so trusting.
With one smooth movement Konrád yanked the rag out of the man’s mouth. The man coughed and gagged, and then his head dropped to his chest. His breathing was hard and ragged. Konrád smiled, knowing the ache in the man’s heart overwhelmed the pain of his bound hands and feet.
“Please do nothing to harm my family. Take my life. Take it now. Just leave them be.”
Konrád moved back to the table by the window and used the smoldering stub of the cigarette to light another.
“If only it was that easy.” He turned back around, cigarette in hand, and tried to make his voice gentle, believable. “I need you to get a little information from some refugees who are trying to get out of the country.”
A trembling started in the man’s limbs, one he couldn’t hide. “I—I could never turn in anyone. I would never be disloyal to my friends.” The man jutted out his chin and feigned defiance.
“Friends or family, you decide. But first I have another request.” He offered a half smile. “There is a particular refugee I wish for you to find. Not for the German state—they have no need of this person—but for myself.”
The man lifted his gaze to meet Konrád’s, the smallest glimmer of hope lighted in his eyes. “You mean I will not have to turn in any of my friends?”
“No, not now. Not yet.”
“What do you want with this person? You won’t hurt him, right?” Emil asked.
Konrád knew what his captive wanted to hear. He knew what this weakling needed to believe if he was to comply with this request and keep his conscience clear. And Konrád knew better than to tell Emil that it was a woman he sought. Not yet. First he would make sure Emil was working for the organization the woman would most likely come to for help.
Konrád flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and watched as the blue-gray smoke rose and twisted in the air. “You are correct
. I have no reason to hurt this person. I only want to talk. This person has something that I want, that I need.” He smiled.
Emil’s shoulders relaxed, and he no longer strained against his ropes.
Konrád leaned down and reached his hand into his boot, pulling out a small jackknife. He approached Emil and touched the knife against his throat. Emil winced, and Konrád pressed until the smallest trickle of blood flowed down the man’s neck.
“You will wait for my instructions, and you will do as I tell you. Are we clear?”
Emil nodded slowly without saying a word.
“Good. Now that we have an agreement, you must get some rest.” Konrád pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his knife before stuffing the cloth back into his pocket. “Your work starts tomorrow.”
Konrád kneeled before his new associate and slowly cut the ropes that bound the man’s ankles. He waited, almost expecting the man to try a quick kick to his groin and attempt to run, but instead Emil sat patiently and waited for Konrád to release his wrists.
It was then Konrád knew he had this man just where he wanted him. His fear over bringing harm to his sister and nephew would make him like a Czech marionette on strings, willing to do Konrád’s bidding, even when his conviction urged him otherwise.
He smiled, thinking about all those refugees who would believe they’d found a friend in Emil. When would they realize they had nowhere to run? Perhaps for some, not until they marched into the death camps. Yet knowing the Jews, even then they’d cling to false hope in their God. A God who would fail them in the end—at least as long as Konrád had something to say about it.
TEN
London, England
Monday, December 19, 1938
Clark paced in his bedroom. The fire roared in his fireplace as his thoughts roared in his mind. He couldn’t just sit here and worry and wonder what was happening with Amity. He had to know why Andrew had requested she join him in Prague. He had to know she was safe. All this worrying and wondering was about to drive him mad. He either had to figure out how to connect with someone who knew what was happening in Prague, or he had to go there himself. Maybe both.
Why did I let her go? Believing that God was directing her to do something grand and meaningful had been noble at the time, but the fact was that the woman he cared for very much was in a foreign country that was the center of Hitler’s lust for more land and more control in Europe. The German chancellor was determined to become the high king of the former Austro-Hungarian empire, and all of Czechoslovakia was in his sights, with Prague as the jeweled crown to top off his conquest—at least until his bloodlust got the better of him once again.
Clark paced a few more times and tried to figure out how to discover what was happening in Prague without Amity feeling as if he were checking on her—which was exactly what he wanted to do. Clark considered what he would do if he were penning a novel and needed insider information for his research.
He paused and scratched his head. If I were to set a novel in Prague and wanted to know the heartbeat of the city without going there, who would I talk to?
In his work as a novelist during the past twelve years, he’d met with all types of people to get behind-the-scenes information. Fans of his fiction praised the true-to-life details, and newspaper reporters often tried to trick him into spilling his sources. A few times the police even came to him, asking him for leads about crime circles in the city. Clark always claimed he simply had a smacking good imagination. After all, if he were to give away even a hint of where he got his information, he’d never be trusted again.
Clark had met with numerous contacts over the years, but today one face came to mind. Antonín Valtr was a Brit who’d lived the first twenty years of his life in Prague, which was then a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A dealer of medieval books and art, Antonín traveled to Prague often, and Clark had no doubt Antonín still had important connections within the inner workings there. There was only one way to find out.
He paused and stared at the beamed ceiling and then smiled, knowing it was time to pay a visit to his old friend. He moved to the tall bookcase and reached up to the second shelf from the top, pulling out a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. What once was a first-edition copy was now only a great ruse.
Clark carefully opened it up, remembering the first time he’d been given this gift. He’d just finished the final draft of The Hidden Staircase to Splendor, and Antonín had been his informer on the details of illegal art trade. It wasn’t until Clark had gotten home that he’d opened the brown paper wrapping to see that the center of the book had been hollowed out, and his friend Antonín had left him a note inside.
“For the past twenty years this book held my pistol at my bedside table. Now that I’ve retired I’m leaving it to you. Don’t be a stranger. I like being a hero in your books.”
On the other side of the paper was an address. Clark knew the part of town. It was new construction of small family homes—the last place you’d expect to find a former art dealer, yet the perfect place to hide if you never wanted to be found again.
Clark hadn’t talked with Antonín for more than three years. Everything had stopped—his work, his interest—when Gwen became sick. He slipped the paper into his pocket and then placed the book back onto the shelf, hoping his old friend didn’t mind a drop-in visitor. Clark had no idea if Antonín still had his finger on the undercurrents of what was happening in Prague, but he hoped he did.
With quickened steps, Clark dressed for the inclement weather and then hurried down to the kitchen. That was one room he and Celia rarely entered, yet Clark knew that was exactly where the staff would be gathered on a day like today when the snow kept them inside. With purposeful strides he approached the door. He could hear talking and laughter. As he pushed the door open, all the conversation stopped, and six heads turned his direction.
“Sir, can I help you? Is there a problem?” The words were out of Mrs. McGovern’s mouth first. But it was his driver, Godfry, who jumped to his feet, standing at attention.
“No problem, Mrs. McGovern, but I thought I’d like to go for a drive.” He turned to Godfrey. “Can you get me the keys? I shan’t be gone long.”
“You want to drive, sir?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you haven’t driven alone—”
“In three years, I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive.” Clark forced a smile, knowing that all eyes were on him. “Christmas is in a few days, isn’t it? I have a few errands to run, if you know what I mean.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Clark chided himself for being deceitful. After his visit, he’d have to stop by some local shops.
“Oh, yes, sir. I’ll get the keys. The auto is already fueled up and ready.”
“I appreciate that.”
Godfry’s face reddened as it always did when he felt nervous or embarrassed. “Are you certain you don’t want me to drive you, sir?”
“I am certain, Godfry, although I appreciate the offer. Even a man in mourning has to remember there’s a life out there worth living.” The words had slipped out, but even as he said them Clark realized how true they were. He had brought life into his home when he’d hired Amity, and now that she was gone, he was starting to notice how much they still hid themselves from the real, pulsating life outside these walls.
Mrs. McGovern rose to her feet too. She shuffled toward the kitchen pantry in a flurry as if she someone had just stoked a fire under her. “Would you like me to pack a lunch for you, sir?”
“Dear lady, we just finished breakfast. I’m full and I know a secret. If I do get hungry, there are things called restaurants.”
Laughter spilled from the lips of the maids and gardeners who still sat around the table.
Her brows folded. “So will you be eaten’ out then, sir?”
“I may or may not.” Clark turned to the door to follow Godfry to the garage. “It will be a surprise for
both of us, now, won’t it?”
“And Celia, sir?” Mrs. McGovern shuffled after him. “She’s been lost in a book all morning, reading that new novel about the rampages of Attila the Hun, of all things.”
He smiled, thankful that even though his daughter was officially on holiday, she still found pleasure in reading and learning. Amity would be proud.
“You can tell her that I’ve gone out. Surely this close to Christmas she won’t ask too many questions.”
Mrs. McGovern tipped up one eyebrow as if to say, And how much do you really know your daughter, sir?
Clark paid her no mind and hurried out into the cold of the morning. That will give them something to talk about anyway. He chuckled to himself—their employer coming out of his hibernation in the dead of winter, of all things.
No more than thirty minutes later, Clark was parking in front of a good-sized cottage. He eyed it curiously, checking the address to ensure he had the right place. “A chocolate box thatch with a front garden. Goodness, Antonín, you are enjoying the simple life, aren’t you?” He turned off the car and slipped the key into his jacket pocket, telling himself that he was doing Amity a favor by keeping an eye on her.
Clark hadn’t even raised his hand to knock at the door when it swung open, and he found himself being welcomed in by his old friend. As Clark stepped into the doorway, the warmth of the room hit him first. Next, the tasteful decorations of the large reception room grabbed his notice. At least a dozen pieces of fine art hung on the walls, and the furniture was tastefully modern. Just like the pistol hidden inside the first-edition copy of a Dickens novel, Antonín knew how to protect himself from curious gazes.
“Clark Cartwright, old friend, it is a good thing to see that you’re still breathing.” Antonín pointed to Clark’s coat, and he happily passed it over.
