by Tricia Goyer
Amity was slightly less alarmed when she was called to the Gestapo headquarters again. It was now policy that all exit documents had to be stamped in person. Her new contact for all the transports, she was told, was Kriminalrat Boemmelburg. She hadn’t known what to expect, but when she arrived she was met by an elderly, smiling gentleman.
The Kriminalrat invited her to join him for tea and chatted as if they were long-lost friends. He seemed very interested in her project—too interested, as far as she was concerned. Still, she smiled, chatted, and tried to be as vague about her work and life as she could.
“I have so many questions, Miss Mitchell,” he said, offering her cookies to go with her tea. “Mainly, why does England want so many Jewish children?”
“They are children. Isn’t that enough?”
“There is a big difference between a child and a Jewish child.” He sighed. “But I suppose you would not understand.”
“Kriminalrat Boemmelburg, I have the paperwork for the transport,” she said, trying to steer the conversation in the right direction. “If you would just include your stamp, I could leave you to all your other important work.”
He paused for a moment, and Amity held her breath. Then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. Finally, he looked down and stamped the paper with a flourish.
“Tomorrow my Gestapo clerk will meet you at the station. And the children will be ready?”
“Yes, indeed.” Amity didn’t wait for the man to continue. She picked up the papers and took a step back. “I don’t want to take any more of your time, sir. I appreciate your help.”
“Miss Mitchell, one more thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kriminalrat Boemmelburg narrowed his gaze at her. “You have to know that I am trying to be helpful here. Germany has no need for Jews, criminals, or Communists within our borders.” A shudder seemed to travel down his spine. “I will do what I can to help you remove these unwanted from our borders. And that’s how I see them, as unwanted leeches.”
Amity was appalled by the way the Kriminalrat spoke of children, as if they were cockroaches that needed to be stomped out. Even while he was conveying such hatred, his expression remained passionless. Yet she detected an underlying rage that she hadn’t noticed until now. It hovered there within his eyes, and she had a feeling with the smallest provocation the anger would unleash.
Her knees grew soft, and overpowered by his gaze, Amity returned to her seat and folded her hands together, hoping to hide their trembling.
“As I was saying, we have no need for those children within our borders. But I promise you, if there are any errors on the transport list, it is you who will become the criminal, Miss Mitchell.” He leaned forward against his desk and folded his arms over each other. “I have toured a few of the camps, and I have to say they are no place for a lady like yourself. Yet that would be the better of two fates.”
She nodded slowly, letting him know she understood. Yet the false papers seemed to burn like fire within her grasp.
“Yes, you hold an American passport, but you are still in our jurisdiction, submissive to our control. Even though it is not public knowledge, there have been quite a few Americans who have disappeared within this city in the last few months. It’s so hard to keep track of them—even aid workers—on foreign soil. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
Her throat tightened. She sucked in slow breaths, hoping he couldn’t see the full extent of the fear that was coursing through her.
His gaze stayed fixed for a few more seconds, and Amity was sure he could hear the beating of her heart. But then, as if a flip were switched within, Kriminalrat Boemmelburg leaned back. His face broke into a smile, and he folded his hands on his large middle.
“I believe now that we understand each other better, yes?”
Amity nodded and searched for her voice. She cleared her throat, “Yes, sir, we do.”
“Fine then. Continue with your work. You’re doing such a fine job for someone your age. I will see you in no more than a month’s time with information about your next transport.”
“Yes, sir. I will be back.” She rose and offered what she hoped was a believable smile in return.
THIRTY-FOUR
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Friday, March 31, 1939
Pavla knelt before Ondřej and pulled him into her arms. Ondřej’s face was even with hers, and she kissed his cheeks over and over again, unable to get enough of him.
Her son pulled back. “Mami, please. I will miss the train.”
Pavla laughed through her tears. “I know, it is too much. I will not let you be late, and my friend Amity has promised that Klára will be on the next transport.”
Worry filled his large brown eyes. “But, Mami, you said I was not to leave her.”
“I know, but it is just the paperwork.” She spread open her arms and shrugged. “These things happen. But I promise you that when the next train comes, your sister will be there, and some very nice people will bring her to you.”
“And you, Mami?” Ondřej narrowed his gaze. “Will you come?”
She nodded wildly, hoping that he believed her. Pavla wasn’t sure he would get on the train if he didn’t. “Not soon, but sometime in the future, Ondřej, yes, I will come.”
Pavla bit her lower lip, rose, and took a step back. Was she wrong in telling him that she would come for him? Should she tell the truth—that this was their final parting? No. She couldn’t do that. In this moment she’d rather let Ondřej be impatient than racked with grief.
Ondřej leaned in, turning his cheek her direction one more time. Instead of kissing him, she took his chin in her hand and turned his face to her, peering into his eyes. “I am proud of you. Remember that. And your father was too. He was so proud of you, Ondřej.” Only then did she kiss his cheek, once, twice, three times more.
Emil approached, carrying Michal. As if knowing what to do, Ondřej extended his hand. “Come, Michal, you can sit with me.”
Pavla didn’t have to tell him to watch out for his little friend on the train. She knew he would, just as he’d always cared for his sister. She just hoped her son didn’t take all the responsibility upon his shoulders for all the other children in the home he was going to. Maybe in England he’d have a childhood once more.
“Will Ondřej be going across the water, Maminka? And in a few weeks, will I be going across the water too?” Klára rocked from her heels to her toes and back again as she asked the same question she’d already asked twenty times that morning.
Pavla released her hold on her son, even though her heart ached and everything within her told her to hold on tight.
“Ano, Klára. Ondřej will be going across the sea to England. His first time on a train and on a ship.”
She smiled at her son, hoping he, too, would see this as an adventure. “Make sure you remember everything so can you write me and tell me about it.”
“Yes, Maminka,” he said. And then with one more quick hug he took Michal’s hand and headed to the line to join the others.
It took forever for them to get on the train. But once inside, Ondřej found a seat for him and Michal. He sat closest to the window and dared to look outside, looking for his mother.
She stood rigid as a statue, standing on the platform, unmoving. Klára twirled by his mother’s side as if she wasn’t upset at all that he was leaving. Ondřej waved at her even though he knew she couldn’t see him. She was too small to really understand.
Then he waved his hands frantically at his mother. Did she see him? If Mami did, she made no sign of it. In his mind he prayed a prayer of protection over his dear mother, just as he imagined his father would have done. Then he thought of his father too.
Táta, I tried to do my best to take care of them, but why do I have to do this alone? Is it wrong for me to go and for them to stay?
The train started to pick up speed, and Michal let out a happy squeal. Around Ondřej, children cheered and sang. To them it was a great adventure. But his
poor mother. How could he rejoice to be leaving his mother?
With frantic movements Ondřej reached for the window to open it—to call out to his mother one last time—but the window was sealed. She was just a small gray blur now, and with trembling hands he pressed against the glass. If only there could be a way of escape for her too. How could he live his life without a father and a mother? How could he live without Klára? O Creator God, his soul cried, please help us…
Ondřej released a breath when the train station was finally out of view. He missed his mother in a way he hadn’t expected. Not the mother who’d brought Klára and him to Prague—the secretive one who pretended as if they were not being hunted here in Czechoslovakia, just as the German Jews had been hunted before them—but the one who used to laugh with them, dance with them, tell them stories. That mother had died the day they left Olomouc, he supposed.
He also missed his father and still felt guilty for leaving. His father had wanted him to be the protector, so why had he run?
For the months before his father’s death, they had spent special time together. At least twice a week his father would wake him in the night and lead him out to Dědeček’s workshop beyond the garden. Father had told him he’d wished he could protect Ondřej’s childhood, but in this world that was not possible.
And as the hours had ticked by and Ondřej had rubbed his eyes, attempting to stay awake, his father had talked to him about the resistance. Ondřej had stayed quiet and attentive during the midnight lessons. His father had spoken of how to survive and how to care for his mother and sister if needed. Ondřej had done his best.
Once, his father had even brought a friend who had taught Ondřej how to resist questioning by the Gestapo. Thankfully that hadn’t been needed, yet every night since his father’s death he’d replayed all he had learned before he drifted off to sleep. How to overcome anxiety from hiding in a dark space, how to deal with heat and cold, and how to hide in ways one wouldn’t be found.
Ondřej hadn’t used many of those things, but he had remembered where to tell his mother to go for help. He had been able to forage for food while she slept in the shed. He had done his best to help keep Klára distracted so she wouldn’t be so noisy.
Ondřej looked at Michal, who stared out the window so peacefully. Ondřej was sure that he wouldn’t be so peaceful if he was old enough to understand they’d soon be traveling through the land of their enemies. The land of the dictator who wanted all Jews dead, even light-haired ones like his sister.
Please…let her be able to get out.
Ondřej yawned and stretched. How many hours had they been traveling? He’d lost count.
The scariest part of the trip was going through Germany. In his mind’s eye, Ondřej pictured the Nazis boarding and telling them to get off the train, but that hadn’t happened. They were nearly all the way through. Now the German-Dutch frontier was just ahead. Or at least that’s what the woman in the train car said. She had helped to take care of Michal, who now slept.
The train started to slow, and Ondřej’s heart jumped to his throat. They could get out of Germany, couldn’t they? There was no problem, was there?
A boy rushed up to Ondřej. “We are in Holland! The Germans are behind us!”
Not too long after that, the train pulled into the first Dutch station. The people looked different here. They looked happy and healthy. Ondřej let out a low whistle. “Look, this is a busy place.”
A large number of people were on the platform. The train neared and slowed. People waved. Some cheered.
“Are they cheering for us?” the boy asked Ondřej.
“Surely not. How would they even know?”
But when the train came to a complete stop, they were told they were going to disembark for a time. “Come, children, lunch is waiting. Look at all the people who have come to see you,” the woman who held Michal said.
“They are here for us?” Ondřej’s jaw dropped opened. His eyes widened. In Olomouc, people had known him for who he was—the shopkeeper’s son—but after he left, he was a nobody. Just a person hiding. And among the refugees he was just a face in the crowd. But here. His heart warmed in his chest. He was important.
“If they ask, I will tell them my name is Andrew.”
Emil had told Ondřej that Andrew was his name in English. Emil had also said it was the name of the man who had traveled to Czechoslovakia to save the children. Andrew liked his new name, and he also made a promise that one day he would save children too.
THIRTY-FIVE
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Saturday, April 8, 1939
Konrád narrowed his gaze at Emil. “Did you think you could escape from us so easily?”
A lone lightbulb hung from the ceiling of the dank basement of the city municipal building that had recently been turned into one of the Gestapo outposts around the city. And under the bulb sat Emil, with hands and feet tied. Konrád felt hurt. He’d trusted Emil to bring him Pavla Šimonová. Instead, he’d tried to escape.
Next to Emil was a table with two items on it. A family photo of the Šimonová family and a ring.
“What a fool, trying to get across the border hidden under a pile of straw. It was smart of you to try to bribe the farmer. Too bad I had already gotten to him first, letting him know if any refugees approached him, looking for a means of escape, that he’d receive a finder’s fee. Thankfully my bribe was larger than yours.”
In the chair, Emil did not move. He only looked straight ahead.
“Did you think that if you gave all your time and energy to the British cause, they would save you? Sacrificing yourself for others, ja, it sounds noble. But did you really think that anyone would be there for you at the end?”
“What do you want from me?” Emil growled under his breath. “I told you I did not see that woman.”
“You lie, Emil. If you haven’t see her, then why did you have her ring?”
“How do you know its hers?” Email said defiantly.
“It’s in the photograph. This very ring is on her hand.”
Emil shrugged. “Someone gave it to me.”
Heat surged through Konrád. He slapped Emil’s mouth with the back of his hand. Emil let out a low grunt, followed by a moan. Blood trickled from his lips.
Konrád wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, no doubt leaving a bit of Emil’s blood behind. Not that it mattered. He hoped to be covered with Emil’s blood by the time he was finished. “Emil Marek, bookseller of anti-Nazi propaganda. It would be so much easier if you would just tell me where she is.”
Emil jutted out his chin. “I will never support your quest. You deserve nothing.”
“I have no quest except what will bring me satisfaction. I have told you before that I will not hurt her. I simply want what is owed me.”
Emil lifted his gaze again. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that for all my life I had to live with a father who drank every night until he passed out, which I didn’t mind, since it brought sweet relief from the beatings I would get with the cane. Yet even as a child I knew it wasn’t me he hated, but the Jews who led to our family’s destruction.
“We had a beautiful home until after the Geneva Compact. Then we found our German homeland in Czech territory. And my father—a city leader—was out of a job.”
Konrád sighed. “Losing his position was hard enough, but after having to sell his property to Jewish vermin, my father was never the same.”
Emil sunk deeper into his seat, the hatred clear in the German’s eyes.
Konrád took another drink. “Do you know what it’s like to walk by your former home and peer into the room that used to be yours? To watch Abram on a bicycle, while my shoes pinched my toes and hunger gnawed at my stomach?” Konrád laughed. “And now the worms are eating his corpse. It is the last thing I think of when I go to sleep. It’s the first thing I remember when I wake—a shallow grave in the very forest he used to play in as a child.”
&n
bsp; “It seems as if you’ve gotten your revenge.”
Konrád smirked and then lifted his revolver from his desk and pointed it at Emil. “Except for the fact that his wife and children got away. And along with every penny the family owned.”
Emil’s hands were trembling. He balled them into fists on his lap, trying to hide their shaking. It did not help.
Konrád leaned so close, his face was just inches away. He took in a deep breath, smelling the scent of fear each time Emil exhaled.
“And what if I refuse?”
Konrád fixed his eyes on Emil and narrowed his gaze. “I’ve already strolled around the city. Have you ever been on Petřín Hill? There are dozens of trails, and no one would think much of a shallow grave there.”
Konrád could read the thrashing about in Emil’s mind. Her life for his. It wasn’t a choice Emil wanted to make.
“What if I stand by the story—that I’ve not yet met anyone with that name?”
“Well, then I suppose you’re keen on digging your own grave.”
“How long will you give me to find her?” Emil finally asked.
Konrád smiled and patted his shoulder, knowing he would come around. “Tomorrow. You have until tomorrow.”
THIRTY-SIX
Prague, Czechoslovakia
Sunday April 9, 1939
The next morning, in his new apartment in a much nicer part of the city, Konrád dismantled his Walther semiautomatic pistol. Piece by piece he took it apart and then meticulously cleaned every section. Today was the day. Today he’d finally discover the location of the treasure he’d been longing for.
Once the pistol had been put back together, he slid it into his holster. He put on the holster and then put his jacket on top. He was going to settle his score, receive his prize.
Finally, Konrád reached into the top drawer and pulled out the dagger, sliding it into the holster in his boot. Even though there were minor skirmishes on the streets of the city lately, the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. A knife was a much quieter way to kill if necessary. Konrád enjoyed using force in his official duties, but this mission was personal. The least attention he could draw to this situation the better.
