by Tricia Goyer
Antonín hung the coat on a black iron rack and then turned back to Clark. “Just not more than a month ago I was meeting with a contact in Milan who claimed that a character in one of your novels was strangely similar to myself. I was flattered, of course, but disappointingly couldn’t reveal our connection. What took you so long to look me up? Would you like a drink? Come, warm yourself by the fire.” The man’s arm swept the room, and he pointed to one of the cushioned, shell-back chairs positioned close to the stone fireplace. A small fire danced and crackled in the hearth.
“No drink please, and I wish I could say I’ve come to again receive inspiration for one of my novels. Valentýn Oto is one of my most popular characters, and I’ve even received letters from women wanting to know his current marital status.” Clark chuckled as he sat, his body relaxing into the gold cushioned chair that was surprisingly comfortable despite the art deco style. “But the truth is, I’ve come on a personal matter.”
“Please, by all means, forward their requests. I haven’t been on a good date in ages.” He steepled his fingers and placed them to his lips. “But let me guess, this personal matter has something to do with a friend in Germany, Austria, or the Sudetenland perhaps?”
“Close, Prague. My daughter’s tutor just traveled there. Her brother works for the British Home Office and asked her to come assist with the Jewish refugee situation.”
Antonín nodded. “A situation I know well. For the last few years, as Hitler’s hatred of the Jewish people has been displayed in his speeches and treatment of the Jews, I’ve been busier than ever. The mounting war has caused the art market to go mad. Leave it to a crazy German dictator to pull me out of retirement.”
“Let me guess…foreseeing the future, wealthy Jews have been trying to get their art out of the country?”
“Yes, it started as that, although ever since the annexation of the Sudetenland in October, most of the calls I have been receiving from former clients has been about getting themselves out. They’re desperate. Whole families pushed out of their homes and forced to live in refugee camps.”
He shrugged. “Thankfully I have a nephew there who has been a tremendous help to me. He has always had a great concern for social causes. He has a British passport because he was born here, but he was raised in the Sudetenland. I have helped as I can with those fleeing. They are my countrymen, after all. Jewish or not, they are Czech citizens. I have worked with different art dealers, and we have been able to sponsor some of the artists to come here for work. The only problem is that in most of these cases the men have had to come alone, leaving their families behind.” Antonín clucked his tongue. “Quite a heartbreaking situation. The refugees who have made it to London have been working with the Home Office, trying to get their families out, but it’s a sticky mess.”
“Do you think that’s why Amity’s brother has requested her—to help with the women and children?”
“That would be my guess, but if it were my friend, I would tell her to be careful. Those who want to leave are desperate and will use any deception to find a way to make it on the lists the Home Office is compiling. My guess is that this friend is quite beautiful?” Antonín’s lips curled up in a knowing smile. “It is convenient. Too convenient to be used as a literary device in a novel.”
“True, but just convenient enough for me to know that maybe God is still listening to the prayers of this old boy. I’d like to think that’s the case.”
ELEVEN
Brno, Czechoslovakia
Sunday, December 18, 1938
They had traveled by oxcart throughout the night and all through the next day. The farmer transporting them looked to be Pavla’s age—in his late twenties. He had small Klára on the bench next to him, wrapped up in a large woven blanket. Pavla and Ondřej sat in the back, and whenever they approached a checkpoint, the farmer would pull off Klára’s hat, revealing her light hair that fluttered in the cold breeze.
Then, with a smile, the farmer would show the German guards his papers and tell him that he, his wife, and their children were traveling to visit his mother in Brno for Christmas. Pavla hadn’t asked to see the papers. She didn’t know whether he indeed had children of similar ages as her children or if they were forged. It didn’t matter, really, as long as the papers led her to safety. Thankfully, Pavla’s children didn’t look particularity Jewish, and it was easy to conceal the fact that she was too, with her raven hair hidden under a scarf.
Then, as soon as they passed the checkpoint and were out of view, she’d pull Klára off the bench and into her lap, wrapping her arms tight around her.
“I’m cold, Mutti,” her daughter said, snuggling as tight as she could into Pavla’s lap.
“I know, beruška, my little bug. We will be there before long.” As the oxen trudged on, Klára stopped asking how much longer they had to go. Instead, she slept limply in Pavla’s arms. Pavla sent up a prayer, thanking God for her daughter’s deep sleep, and she didn’t think more of it until they arrived at the safe house in Brno.
As the moon rose high on the second night of their journey, the jostling of the wagon stopped. Pavla sat up, with Klára still on her lap, and realized she must have fallen asleep. Pavla opened her eyes wider, seeing that they were parked behind a small cottage.
The farmer lifted Klára from the back of the wagon and then paused, looking at Pavla with alarm.
“She is burning with fever. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Pavla scooted to the end of the wagon. “She is?”
She touched Klára’s cheek. She indeed was terribly hot. Pavla gasped. “A doctor. We must find a doctor!” Her words echoed off the bare trees in what appeared to be an orchard.
“Shh,” the farmer scowled. “Please do not be so loud. You will alert the neighbors. We don’t want anyone to know you’re here.”
The smile he’d had all through their journey was gone. A scowl now replaced it. Had it just been an act? He picked up Klára and hurried inside. Pavla longed to follow him, to check on her daughter, but first she had to wake her son. With urgency she leaned close to Ondřej’s ear. “We are here. We are safe. We have to get inside.”
He lay still, unmoving. She touched his face. Unlike Klára’s, which radiated heat, his was icy cold. She sucked in a breath, wondering when was the last time she remembered him stirring.
“Ondřej!” She grabbed his arms and shook him. “Ondřej, wake up, wake up!”
She thought she saw the slightest flutter of his eyes, and suddenly a hand clamped around her mouth. With a force she wasn’t use to, the farmer dragged her off the back of the wagon bed. She stretched her arms toward her son but refused to cry out. The man’s hold was strong, and she was certain he’d hurt her if she made any more noise.
He dragged her up the steps into his house. She tried to gain her footing, but it was no use. With a few more steps, the man opened the door of the cottage and pushed her inside, following her in. Pavla reached for a kitchen chair, trying to get her balance, but instead she fell and hit it with her chin. She bit her tongue as she hit and tasted blood. The feeling of warm liquid dripped down her neck from a gash in her chin.
“Radek, please!” A young woman with a halo of brown curls rushed forward, shouting. She turned from where she was slicing bread and gasped at her husband, who hovered over Pavla. “What are you doing?”
He paused on the top step and turned to her. “Stupid Jew!” It was more of a growl than a shout. “Does she want to alert all the neighbors to us?”
“We already told them we were having guests for the holidays. I don’t think they could have heard her. Please sit down.”
He waved a hand to the doorway. “There is yet another one out there, half dead.” Radek cursed under his breath. When he turned back around, Pavla noticed his hands were shaking. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Do you know, Emílie, that every time they stopped us, they took down our names. I was not told that would happen. The Germans have our names now.”
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“How long do you think it would have taken for the Germans to get our names? And my grandmother is Jewish—did you forget?” Emílie pointed to the doorway. “Go get that child out of the wagon.” Her face softened as she looked from Klára, who was resting on the sofa, to Pavla, who had brought herself up to a sitting position. “Look what you’ve done. Who should I help first?”
Pavla pulled a handkerchief from her sweater pocket and dabbed her chin. “My daughter—please, help my daughter.” Her mouth tasted like iron from the blood, but she gave it no mind as she rushed to Klára’s side. “I am so sorry I was yelling. I had been sleeping. Then Klára was so very hot, and Ondřej…for a moment I thought he was dead. His skin was like ice.”
She heard movement, and she turned to see Ondřej staggering along at the man’s side. He paused as his eyes fixed on his mother. He pointed to the bloody handkerchief. “Did that man do this to you?” he spat.
“I fell, that is all.” She rose and moved to her son. She touched her hand to his cheek, still alarmed by how cold he was. “Please come stand by their fire.”
His crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to go near their fire.”
She put her arm around him and scooted him closer to the fire. “They are helping us. I should not have cried out like I did.”
The farmer placed Pavla’s small carpetbag at her feet without a word, and then he turned and stomped toward the door. “I’m going to take care of the animals. I will eat when I get back.”
Ondřej watched the farmer leave and then kneeled, lifting his hands to the fire—the draw of the heat too much of a lure.
Seeing that her son was getting the warmth he needed, Pavla moved to the sofa and kneeled by her daughter. With quivering fingers, she brushed her daughter’s hair back from her face. “Is there a doctor we can call? I do not have any medicine. I have a few crowns, though, to pay—”
“No, we do not want to get the doctor. He is one of the leaders of the Nazi supporters in our town. He is the last one who needs to know we are hiding Jews in our house.”
Pavla shrank back. She wasn’t sure what these people thought of her and her children. Had they changed their minds about keeping them?
Around Olomouc, she and Abram had been business owners and important citizens. They had been friends with many people from all types of backgrounds, but now she realized for the first time how different she was in other people’s eyes.
Emílie’s eyes softened as she looked at Klára. “We must undress her and get her into a cold bath.”
“A cold bath? No.” Pavla wrapped her arms around her daughter. “I can’t do that.”
“We have to get her temperature down. A fever this high can cause seizures. Or worse, we could lose her.”
Tears filled Pavla’s eyes as she unbuttoned her daughter’s dress. Klára was limp as Pavla pulled the dress over her head. She left on her undershirt and panties. The white of the underclothes was a sharp contrast to the pink of her fevered skin.
With quickened movements, Emílie retrieved a tin tub from the porch and filled it from water from the sink. It was nearly full when the door opened again and Radek entered.
His eyebrows were folded down in a scowl. “Where is my dinner? I told you I’d be right in.”
Emílie turned off the water and swept her hand to the counter. “I cut some bread, and there’s cheese in the cupboard. It’s the best I can do.” Emílie lowered her voice. “The little one has a fever, just as our Bernard did.”
Radek looked down at the small girl as Pavla lowered her into the water. Sadness filled his face. Pavla wasn’t sure how long ago it had been since they’d lost their son, but Klára’s fever had spiked their emotions. Klára cried out as she sank into the water, and Pavla took that as a good sign.
With tenderness that Pavla hadn’t expected, Radek approached her. “I’m sorry I knocked you down. When I felt the fever and heard your cries, I felt an anger I didn’t expect. Anger that death had robbed us of our son not even a year ago yet. Please forgive me.”
“Of course. I am so sorry. I hope the neighbors…”
“Worry not about the neighbors. Like my wife said, they most likely didn’t hear a thing. Even my daughter slept right through it. One girl left,” he explained.
Now warm from the fire, Ondřej moved over to stand by her side. “Will she be all right, Mutti? Klára will not die like Táta, will she?”
“We must pray, Ondřej. Pray to God that isn’t the case.”
Without hesitation, Ondřej dropped to his knees and gripped the side of the tub. “May the Holy Blessed One overflow with compassion upon Klára, to restore her, to heal her, to strengthen her, to enliven her. The One will send her, speedily, a complete healing—healing of the soul and healing of the body—along with all the ill, among the people of Israel and all humankind, soon, speedily, without delay, and let us all say: Amen!”
Tears filled Pavla’s eyes and a soft cry came from Emílie’s lips as she clung to her husband’s side.
“Was that a Jewish prayer?” Radek asked.
“Yes.” Pavla nodded, and then she turned her attention again to Klára. The young girl’s light hair floated on the top of the water. “Even though we were not always faithful to attend the synagogue, my husband taught my son some Scriptures and some prayers.”
“It was just beautiful.” Emílie sniffled as she pressed her check against Radek’s shirt. “If only the Lord would answer. He did not for us, and I have not prayed since, but at this moment I will pray for your daughter.”
They stood in a half circle around the tub, praying quietly in their hearts. Just a few minutes had passed when Klára opened her eyes. “Maminka…” Her chin quivered. “Can I get out now?”
“Oh, sweet child!” Pavla touched her face and noted that her fever had indeed gone down. She looked to Emílie, who nodded her agreement that it was all right to get the girl from the tub.
Emílie wrapped a towel around Klára’s shivering form as Pavla lifted her from the water.
Klára place a hand to her ear. “My ear hurts…Oh, Maminka…”
Emílie finished wrapping the towel around the girl and then moved to the cupboard. “I have some garlic oil. Let’s put her to bed, and I’ll warm some and drop it in her ear with a dropper. It works with all my children, and I have some homemade elderberry syrup too. It’s good for fever, but I know now that the quickest way to drop a fever is a cool bath.”
Less than ten minutes later, Pavla was nestled into a warm bed with Klára on one side and Ondřej on the other. It was the first time she’d slept in a bed since the night before they escaped, and Pavla couldn’t remember feeling something so wonderful. And for the first time in weeks, Pavla didn’t cry herself to sleep, knowing there were those out there who wanted to kill them just as they had killed her husband. Instead, she would fall asleep knowing there were still good people in the world who opened their homes and their hearts to strangers.
Pavla let her eyes flutter closed. They had stumbled into this house with everything seemingly wrong, but by the end of the night all was well, mostly due to the urgency of a young boy’s prayer.
TWELVE
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Wednesday, December 21, 1938
The taxi made slow progress in the dense morning traffic—a merging of modern vehicles and ancient farm carts, history and modern travel attempting unity with little success.
The air was gray, perhaps from the cloud of exhaust fumes puffing from the vehicles in motion, or maybe from the foggy cloud cover that had arrived with the first rays of dawn. As the taxi moved along, the ancient city gave way to tumbled-down flats, and beyond that, small country homes.
Amity saw the first camp from a distance, and she straightened in the automobile’s leather seat. It was a municipal building that had been transformed into a temporary shelter. And from the long line of people already extending from the front door, she could see the space had reached its capacity,
with still more people seeking help.
She and Andrew had spent the past few days together talking with the refugees who were lined up by the Prague office and making important visits to various officials at the British Embassy in Prague. Thun Palace had been opulent inside and perfectly orderly, as she expected. Amity especially appreciated meeting Mr. Gibson, the passport control officer, who thanked her for her volunteer efforts.
“It’s not every day a beautiful young woman comes to a country such as this, especially to speak up for the defenseless,” Mr. Gibson had told her. “Please, you have to do me the honor of taking you to dinner sometime. I’d like to get to know such a smashing young woman better.”
Amity had brushed off the invitation by launching into a dialogue about the poor and wretched children, speaking with passion until Mr. Gibson had turned glassy-eyed and had excused himself for another reception he had to attend.
Amity’s stomach felt like a jumble of nerves as they entered the front doors of the municipal office. Inside the building, she scanned the room. Her chest filled with a dull ache at the sight of children whose parents had no choice but to leave them behind.
The first open foyer had been set up with two long rows of cots. Every bed was full, and blankets lined the floor. Children clustered on them in groups. Some slept. A few stared at the ceiling in silence. One about Celia’s age sat in front of the window and read a book with intensity, as if hoping to be carried away to any other time and place.
Amity turned to Andrew, and the sadness in his gaze reflected in her soul. “So many,” she mouthed.
Andrew only nodded.
A young girl, no more than three or four, lying on a cot nearest to the door, awoke. Her wide-eyed gaze told Amity that the nightmare had come to her not in her sleep but upon her waking.
Amity finally understood even deeper the implications of the Nazis’ plans for the Jews as she peered into the eyes of a tearful child. The girl clung to a housecoat with a pattern of yellow faded flowers—maybe a housecoat that had belonged to her mother.
