by Tricia Goyer
“Promise me, will you, that you will obey the women on the train who will care for you? And stay together. Promise me you will always stay together.”
Ondřej nodded, and Klára attempted to smile. “We promise, Mutti.”
She kneeled before them, her knees pressing into the cold concrete floor. Pavla’s arms wrapped around her children, pulling them close. She placed a dozen kisses on their cheeks but refused to allow any more tears to come. Those would come later, after she knew they were on the train. After she knew they were safe. “That’s my good, good children…”
It was only after Pavla knew that her children would soon be safe on a transport that she allowed herself once again to remember the night her husband was killed. Kristallnacht—November 10, 1938. Had it been just four months ago? The dark of the night pressed around her, and as she listened to her children’s breathing as they slept, she allowed her thoughts to take her back.
That night Pavla had believed the worst had come when news arrived that the synagogue was burning. Even though they attended Shabbat services only a few times a year, the synagogue was still the center of their community. It was a place of prayer, study, and education. She often spent time with friends doing social and charitable work, and for her whole family it was a social center. It was bad enough to think of their shul burning.
Her knees quivered, and a thousand times she wished she could go back and replay that night. She had been trying to get her children to sleep, pretending all was right in the world, while her husband and his parents discussed whether they should go to the city and see if their business was still standing. She was reading them one of their favorite bedtime stories. Though all was quiet in their apartment, a storm was raging in the center of town, just a fifteen-minute walk away.
The creaking of the bedroom door and the shaft of light from Abram opening the door had first annoyed her. Couldn’t her husband give her a few minutes to get the children to sleep? But worry had creased her husband’s face, even deeper than it had earlier, causing her to lay aside the book she’d been reading to the children.
“Shh…I will be right back.” She’d attempted to keep her voice soft and gentle as she patted her children’s heads. And while Klára complained that she’d stopped the story, Ondřej sat up in bed and watched her go. He balled his fists and narrowed his gaze, as if he knew an enemy was waiting not far beyond their home, an enemy he was ready to fight with all his strength. Her poor sweet boy. He had no idea how much fighting he would have to do over the weeks and months to come.
Looking back, Pavla knew his childhood ended that moment. For months he’d overheard their low, whispered tones, probably trying to decipher what had caused his father and grandfather so much angst. Dědeček had wanted to immigrate to Palestine, yet it was Abram who had been more reasonable. “Let us just leave the country, Father—to England or even Australia—anywhere to protect our family.”
If it had only been her and the children that Abram had been concerned about, Pavla knew they would have left months earlier. They had all heard Hitler’s speeches and rumors of Jewish persecution. Yet no one in Czechoslovakia realized Hitler’s death grip had already wrapped around their country, just waiting for him to squeeze.
And then the German had arrived that night, taking away her husband and his parents, and the terror of the Nazis had hit home, shattering forever the life they had once enjoyed.
Now, in the abandoned schoolroom, Pavla cuddled closer to Klára. At the thought of both of her children leaving without her, she wanted to curl up and die. She imagined herself finding the shallow grave where Abram was buried and stretching out over it, allowing herself to fall asleep. But even in her despair, something stirred inside her.
Abram gave you love, now you must give him a future through your children. As long as they breathe, they carry on their father’s good name and his story.
It was those words that stirred Pavla’s soul from the dark cave she’d hidden inside. It was then she knew she only had one mission—to ensure that her children, Abram’s children, lived. After that it didn’t matter what happened to her. After that she could allow her mourning to consume her.
THIRTY-ONE
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Tuesday, March 28, 1939
Pavla’s mouth watered, and her stomach growled as she eyed the two plum dumplings, wrapping them up in two kerchiefs and placing them inside her carpetbag for safekeeping. Each child’s suitcase bore two labels: “Wilson Station, Prague” and “Royal Scot, London-Glasgow.” Her children’s former life and their new one represented by two sticky pieces of paper. And their last gifts from their mother were two delicious treats given to her by a Nazi soldier whose attention she had caught outside a small café. Since her children couldn’t eat the dumplings on the train, Pavla’s plan was for them to eat them on the walk to the station on Friday—anything to distract them from what was to come.
Earlier she’d left the children in the room with Maruška and Michal. Maruška was up and around today as if she was feeling better, but deep down Pavla worried it wouldn’t last. Both Pavla’s parents had died from illness, and she knew that often a few weeks before the end of one’s life, one often rallied new strength. Strength that soon slipped away until it was gone.
After making sure the children were settled, Pavla had put on her best dress—the one without the yellow star—and walked down the street to the store. Today, she’d decided, she’d shop like every other citizen. She had a few things she needed to buy, and she never would have been able to buy them wearing the star.
But before she shopped, she needed time to think, to pray. She’d walked through the Jewish district, and not a person was in sight. The doors of the synagogue were sealed tight. A silence as empty as death filled the air, almost as an omen of what was to come.
She’d been here before with Abram, and it had been a vibrant area back then. She approached a bench by the Pinkas Synagogue and sat. The last time they’d been here, a few years ago, the streets had been bustling with locals and visitors. Rabbis had walked along the streets with their disciples. Where are they now? All in hiding? Have some of them already been sent away?
She knew this synagogue dated back to the fifteenth century. Behind it was the Jewish cemetery with layers of graves, their centuries-old gravestones piled on top, leaning on each other for support. In a way, Pavla knew that when she walked away from this place, she would be walking away from that faith too. She was sending her children away to live with Christian families, and when their train pulled away, she would take steps toward that new way of faith too. It wasn’t that she was leaving the religion she’d been raised in. Instead, she was discovering it in a new way by daring to believe that Jesus was, indeed, the Messiah her people had been looking for—that she had been looking for.
When she had stayed at the refugee center, many of the mothers had been upset about being separated from their children. But equally upsetting to these Jewish mothers was that most of their children were going into Christian homes.
“Is it worth saving my child’s life knowing she will be raised not knowing the faith of her ancestors?” one woman asked the others. Some hoped that their children would remember the Jewish faith of their early years. Others said that just knowing that their children would live was enough.
For Pavla, maybe this was her children’s chance to discover a faith that she and Abram had not given them. She thought of Radek and Emílie and the peace she had found in their home. Maybe, in a small way, this would bring her children the strength for whatever they had to face in their own futures.
She’d left the Jewish district then and had gone shopping in the fine part of town that she remembered so well. After this week, she would not be able to give such gifts to her children, and this was her last chance. She’d made her purchases without a problem. No one had guessed she was a Jew.
Pavla had only been a few blocks from the store when the German soldier approached her, invit
ing her to lunch. She remembered then that she wore no ring, no star. She was about to refuse, but the rumbling of her stomach caused her to give in. They have taken from me. Today I will take from them—even if it is only lunch.
It was the first time she’d eaten inside a café in months. She chatted with the handsome soldier, forgetting for a time he was her enemy, and requested two plum dumplings to go. The man had honored her request and asked if he could meet her for lunch the next day. Pavla offered him a smile and then slipped away, strolling down Malá Strana. The soldier had no idea that beneath her smile were tears, nor that within the shopping bag she carried were the last gifts she had to offer her children—new shoes for their journey. Shoes that would walk them up the steps to the platform and onto the train that would carry them away from her forever.
When she arrived back at the school, Ondřej and Klára were still playing with Michal, running around in their new coats, even though they were inside. Emil had brought the new coats by the day before, and she’d been thankful. Her first winter without her children. Their first winter without their mother. Maruška was sitting in a chair, watching the children play, a soft smile on her lips. If she was in pain, she didn’t show it, and for that Pavla was grateful.
Yet even as she sat down next to Maruška she couldn’t get her mind off of the coats and the shoes. Her children had what they needed now, but what of the winters after that? Who would make sure they wore warm coats and didn’t lose their mittens? Pavla placed her fingers to her eyes and pressed. She couldn’t think of that now. She had only to think of the next few days and of getting her children to safety.
THIRTY-TWO
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Wednesday, March 29, 1939
Emil had come around to the schoolhouse the night before, telling Pavla to be at the office today to look over her children’s travel documents and make sure every detail was correct. Now that the Germans were here, there couldn’t be any mistakes.
Pavla and her children arrived just on time, and other women were waiting. When her turn came, Pavla provided their last name, and the older woman with gray hair handed over a file.
Excitement caused her shoulders to tense as Pavla held the document in her hand, reading it to herself. She couldn’t believe she had transport papers. She swallowed hard, knowing all the time and effort it had cost these volunteers to get them.
This document of identity is issued with the approval of His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom to young persons to be admitted to the United Kingdom for educational purposes under the care of the Inter-Aid Committee for children.
This document requires no visa.
Listed next was her son’s name, his birthday, and the address of the school. He looked older in his photo, more mature than his eight years. Two seals made the document valid. This is it. Ondřej would be leaving her.
“And my daughter’s papers?” she asked the woman.
The woman, Madeline, glanced up and looked to Klára, offering her a smile.
She began shuffling through the papers on her desk. “Your daughter. Oh, yes. Let me see if I have the paperwork here.”
The woman continued looking through the pile of files. “I am certain the file was here. I remember reading her name, and it was such a beautiful photo.”
The older woman turned to the younger woman with the auburn hair. They said something in English—something Pavla did not understand, but from the look on her face it didn’t look good.
The younger woman hurried over and glanced at both of Pavla’s children. She studied their faces and then scratched her head. Then, after saying something else, she turned and hurried into a back office. Was that other man back there? Marek? A sinking feeling plummeted in Pavla’s gut.
Pavla’s stomach clenched, and she sent up a hurried prayer. What would happen if they only had the paperwork for her son and not her daughter? To know one of her children would be safe but not the other?
Klára looked up at her with large blue eyes. “Maminka, what is happening?”
Pavla stroked her daughter’s hair. “Nothing, sweetheart. They are just trying to find all the papers we need.”
Ondřej’s dark-brown eyes narrowed, turning his face into a scowl. “Klára will not have to stay here, will she?”
Pavla smiled down at her son, hoping it was believable. “Of course not, Ondřej. I am certain in just a moment they will find her file too. We just need to have faith.”
The volunteers had spent the day turning the office upside down, but they could not find Klára’s file. Amity had never been so frustrated. How could a file be lost? A child’s future was at stake.
When the day slipped into night, Amity found a ride for them back to the schoolhouse and went with them. She also brought Emil back with her to translate.
Amity watched as Pavla sent the children inside the room. Standing in the hall, she took Pavla’s hands into her own. She turned to Emil. “Can you please translate?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I am so sorry. I am not sure what happened. Even Madeline says she remembers seeing the file. But I am sorry. We have not found it. Your daughter cannot go on the transport in two days.”
Emil translated, and Amity’s heart ached to see tears in the woman’s eyes.
He turned back to Amity. “She wants to know what that means for Ondřej.”
Amity released a heavy sigh. “I am so sorry. Pavla will have to make a decision. Does she want to send her son now? Or does she want him to wait with her daughter for the next transport?”
Pavla pressed her fingers to her lips. Amity could see her swallowing down her emotions.
Amity’s head throbbed imagining the woman’s decision. She placed two fingers to her temple, praying for wisdom.
The woman spoke to Emil, and then she slipped inside the room.
Emil’s eyes looked tortured as he turned back to Amity.
“What? What did she say?”
“She says she will send her son. At least—no matter what else happens—she knows he will live.”
Amity crossed her arms and pulled them in tight around her. “I just do not understand how that could have happened. This has never happened before.”
Emil patted her back in an attempt to comfort her. “I have faith that we will find the file. It has to be around there somewhere.”
“Yes, but I think we all have the same question. Will we have an opportunity for another transport?”
Amity’s heart was heavy as she stood in the hall, but her work in this schoolhouse wasn’t done.
“Emil, can you show me the ill mother and her child?”
“Oh, yes.” He pointed to the next door over. “Maruška is inside.” He lifted a bag in his hand. “Madeline gathered food and some medicines for me to bring. I am not sure they are going to help.”
Almost on cue a boy’s cry split the air. Emil knocked, and when there wasn’t an answer, they hurried into the room. The mother was sitting on the bed, but she was slumped forward, as if in pain. Emil rushed to her, urging her to lie down.
Amity opened her arms to the boy. He ran to her and buried his face in her neck, his tears wetting her blouse.
“We cannot leave them like this. It is obvious that this poor mother cannot care for this boy.”
“Do you have the means to care for a child?” Emil’s voice was no more than a whisper.
A voice came from the hall, and Amity looked up to see Pavla standing there.
With quickened steps the beautiful woman rushed into the room. She repeated something, and Amity looked to Emil for a translation.
“Pavla says she will take care of the boy,” he explained.
“But how? Why?” Amity couldn’t understand.
Now that Maruška was settled, Emil moved to the window, looking out into the night. Amity could see emotion all over his face in the reflection of the window. Then he turned back to her and tapped his chest. “I suppose you don’t need an
ything but what’s in your heart to share compassion.”
From the sanctuary of Amity’s lap, the small boy stopped his crying. Pavla approached, reached out, and placed a hand on his head.
Behind her Maruška had fallen to sleep and was quiet now.
“Is she still with us?” Amity’s voice was soft.
“Yes, but I am not sure for how long. When I came by last night to check on them, Pavla told me that Maruška hadn’t eaten or drank anything for two days. She said she was up watching the children, smiling, and then—as if air were released from a balloon—she just deflated. It’s all happening so fast.” Emil took a few crackers from the bag and brought them to the boy, who hungrily ate them. “Thankfully, Michal is on the next transport. At least knowing this, his mother can die in peace.”
Amity sighed. “I suppose we can be thankful for that.”
Then she handed Michal to Pavla, amazed that when everything was being taken away from her, this woman still had something more to give.
Amity rose. “The next few days will be hard ones. Do you think you can check on them often?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course. As much as I can get away. It seems Marek has disappeared. No one has seen him for days. Yet that’s not this woman’s problem, is it? Seeing Pavla give of herself to this woman, though she has lost so much herself, well, that makes me want to help her as much as I can.”
Amity pointed a finger at him. “I hope you’re not getting any ideas. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Emil sighed. “Do not worry. I will not ask it.”
“Good. And let’s hope that the German high command doesn’t catch a whiff of your scheme. Then again, it’s not your head that will roll, is it?”
THIRTY-THREE
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Thursday, March 30, 1939
