by Pam Jenoff
Paul. His face appears suddenly in my mind. I inhale, caught off guard by the image. I have seldom allowed myself to think of him since marrying Simon. The memories still creep in occasionally, of course, prompted by certain days on the calendar, like the anniversary of his death, a picture of Paris in a magazine, a driving rain on the roof that reminds me of our night together in Salzburg. Most days the memories are fuzzy, an out-of-focus photograph or half-remembered dream. But now Paul’s face appears so vividly before me, it seems that if I lifted my hand from the bathwater, I could actually touch him. My insides ache.
Enough. I shake my head, clearing the image. I cannot afford to think of him, not now. What is wrong with me? It is the stress of the mission, of all I have learned. I rub my eyes with wet fists. It is better that I did not tell Emma about Paul, I decide. We are not the friends we were years ago. And some secrets should be kept buried in the past.
A banging sound comes from outside the bathroom. I sit up quickly, sending water splashing over the edge of the tub. Is it the crowd on the street again? No, the sound comes again, louder and more persistent from the hallway. Someone is knocking on the door. Renata. “One minute,” I call. I stand up and step out of the tub, nearly slipping on the now-wet floor. Steadying myself, I reach for a towel, drying and dressing hurriedly. The knocking comes again as I cross the room. “Coming!” I cry, unlocking the door. I reach for the doorknob, then hesitate. “Who is it?”
“Renata.” The familiar voice comes through the door, low and urgent. “Open up, dammit.”
I open the door. Renata pushes past me into the room. She looks back out into the hallway, then closes the door and locks it. “Renata,” I say, “good news. I’m scheduled to meet—” I stop, noticing that her hair is disheveled and she is breathing hard. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” I shake my head. Renata looks around the room, as though someone else might be here. Then she pulls a small transistor radio from her bag and turns it on. The announcer speaks very rapidly in Czech, making it difficult to understand him through the static.
“What is he saying?” I ask.
Renata turns the volume lower. “The police have announced the discovery of a so-called plot by several cabinet ministers to conspire with the West against our great nation,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “The ministers have been forced to resign. The communists have seized power.”
Uneasiness rises in me. “But surely Benes—” I begin.
“Shh!” Renata jerks her head to one side, reminding me the room could be bugged. “The president is weak. He’ll never stand, not without the army or the police behind him.”
I lower my voice. “But I don’t understand. The deputy minister told me nothing would happen here, not until the spring elections.”
Renata smiles wryly. “That’s Western intelligence for you. Either he didn’t know, which is possible, or he lied.”
Because he knew I never would have come if the situation was that dangerous. Simon wouldn’t have let me. A rock forms in my stomach. “But surely people…I saw the protesters earlier today…”
Renata shakes her head. “Nothing more than a few thousand students. They’re meaningless, unless the general public comes to their aid. Which they won’t. People are too afraid.”
“No…” I sink down on the edge of the bed. “Surely there must be something that can be done.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do for us anymore,” Renata says, sitting down beside me. “And you have to get out.”
“You mean, leave Prague? Give up and go home?”
Renata nods. “Right away. The borders have been closed.” Closed. Alarm rises in me at the notion of being trapped. She continues, “There’s a group of Westerners, diplomats’ families mostly, who have been given permission to fly out in about two hours. I’ve put your name on the list and I’ve come now to take you to the embassy.”
I pause, considering what she has said. “But…” I hesitate, looking at the clock. “I’m scheduled to meet with Marcelitis at midnight.”
“You need to be thinking of your own safety and the good of your family. It’s time to get out while you can.”
Renata’s words reverberate inside my head. I should just leave now. For my daughter’s sake, I should put my safety first. But I am so close, just hours away, from getting to Marcelitis. I stand and cross the room to the window once more. The crowds below are gone. Two police cars sit parked on opposite corners, lights flashing. I turn back to Renata. “Has there been any word from London?” I ask, wondering what Simon would want me to do.
“None. Communication is very difficult right now. The government has suspended international calls and telegraphs, so any news would have to go by underground wireless or messenger. I’m not even certain they’ve received news of the coup.”
So I am going to have to decide this one on my own. Looking out the window again, I remember the demonstrators as they stood in Wenceslas Square that morning, singing the Czech national anthem, Hans lying shot on the ground. I think of Emma and her children, who will have to live with whatever becomes of this country.
This is not your fight, a voice inside my head says. Go to the embassy, leave with the others. The D.M. will be disappointed, but he’ll understand. Simon, too—he never wanted me to come in the first place. But stubbornness wells up inside me, blocking thoughts of escape. “I still have to meet with Marcelitis. This is bigger than just Czechoslovakia. Getting the information to him could help in other countries. I’m sorry, Renata, but I can’t leave. Not now.”
Renata stares at me. “You know that you might get stuck here?” I nod. “And that if the embassy closes, there will be no one to help you?”
“I understand.”
Renata exhales sharply. “You are nervy, I’ll give you that. What about after your meeting with Marcelitis? I mean, will you leave then?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“There is one other possible option, but I didn’t want to mention it because I was hoping you would be smart and get on the plane with the others. If we leave right after your meeting, I can try to drive you to the Austrian border, and help you to talk your way across on your diplomatic passport. You can pick up a train to Vienna from there. I can’t promise anything. It would be very dangerous, and I’m not certain it would work.”
“We’ll have to try. It’s our only hope.”
“I really wish you would reconsider and come to the embassy now.”
I shake my head. “I still have to meet Marcelitis.”
“Alone again, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“You know I could insist that you get on that plane,” Renata says.
“Get the embassy guards, or even the police.”
“I know. But I also know that you won’t, because you understand why I am doing this.”
“So,” she says slowly. “I’ll say I came here looking for you, but the room was empty. I’ll go to the embassy and tell them that I couldn’t find you in time for the flight. But immediately after your meeting with Marcelitis tonight, you are to meet me. Come off the bridge, turn left on Krizovnicka Street and walk to Platnerska, the first major intersection. You will see an archway beside an antique store. I will be waiting with the car parked there, out of sight. Be there by twelve-thirty,” she adds. “No later. We need to make sure we can reach the border by dawn, even if we are detoured. Do you understand?”
“So I should pack my things and take them with me?”
“Only your passport and essential papers. You need to leave everything else behind. That way it looks like you are still here if the police come looking for you.”
A chill shoots up my spine. “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
Renata walks toward me and takes me by both shoulders. “The whole world changed tonight, Marta. Now that the communists have secured power here, people are going to start talking. There could be leaks fr
om the embassy, from the anticommunist movement, anywhere. That’s why I wanted you to leave with the embassy flight. Things have become extraordinarily dangerous for all of us. There is no guarantee to safe passage if you stay. Do you understand?”
I swallow hard. “Y-yes.”
“But you haven’t changed your mind, have you?” I stare at her unblinkingly. “I didn’t think so. Then get dressed and prepare for your meeting. I’ll be waiting for you afterward.” She walks to the door and then turns back again. “Be careful leaving the hotel. The police are everywhere.”
“I know.” I gesture toward the window with my head.
“And they’ve imposed a ten o’clock curfew, which you’ll be breaking. You need to take the back stairs to avoid attracting attention.” She opens the door and looks both ways out into the hallway. “Be careful,” she mouths as she backs out of the room. “And good luck.” Then she turns and races down the hallway.
CHAPTER 19
At eleven-fifteen, I stand in the doorway surveying the hotel room as I have left it. My suitcase is open and my nightgown lies strewn across the bed. The lamp on the dresser burns bright yellow. To anyone who might come in while I am gone, it looks as though I will be back shortly. I clutch my purse, containing the papers for Marcelitis and my passport, as I open the door. Checking to ensure the hallway is deserted, I slip from the room.
I make my way down the back steps into the alley. The hotel door closes behind me with a click. Remembering the rats last night, I move swiftly to the end of the alley and peer out into the street, which appears deserted. Taking a deep breath, I begin walking toward the river, hugging the shadows of the buildings, trying to quiet the soles of my shoes as they scrape against the pavement.
Earlier, as I closed the door behind Renata and leaned against it, my heart pounded. What had I done? The notion of being trapped here, unable to leave, terrified me worse than anything. I fought the urge to run after Renata, to tell her I would fly out immediately with the convoy of other foreigners. Then I steeled myself: this might be the only chance for us to reach Marcelitis. I could not quit so close to succeeding. Resolved, I finished dressing, paced the room until it was time to leave. But now, as I creep through the dark streets of the Old Town, I cannot help but wonder once more if staying had been a mistake.
I make my way down one cobblestone street, then another, until at last I reach the river. High on the far bank sits Prague Castle, its turrets bathed in golden light. The Charles Bridge arches gently across the river, connecting the Old Town with the Mala Strana, or Lesser Quarter. Statues of saints, illuminated by the moonlight, rise from the low walls that flank both sides of the bridge.
I approach the base of the bridge, then pause, shivering as I remember lying on the Kraków railway bridge, the Kommandant’s lifeless body beside me. There was another bridge, too, I remind myself, pushing the image from my mind. Paris. I see the Pont Neuf, remember Paul’s warmth against my back, his arms around me as we gazed at the Eiffel Tower. From the far bank of the river, cathedral bells begin to chime midnight. Forcing the memories from my mind, I scan the length of the deserted bridge. Emma had not said where the rendezvous was to take place, and if I cross, someone might see me. But I cannot risk missing Marcelitis. I step from the safety of the shadows, begin walking low across the bridge. The saints look down solemnly on me, their silhouettes cool white against the night sky.
As I near the center of the bridge, a tall figure emerges from the shadows at the far end and starts toward me. Marcelitis. I walk forward, my heart racing. Just before reaching him, I stop. From all of the stories, I expected someone young and vibrant, like Alek and Jacob had been. But Marcelitis is older, his bald head glowing in the moonlight. “Marta?” I nod. “I’m Jan Marcelitis.” His English is heavily accented.
I study his pale face and bloodshot gray eyes. “Did Marek explain to you why I am here?”
“Yes. Give me the information you have for me. The cipher has been left at a dead drop. Assuming the information you offer is acceptable to me, I will give you the location.” I hesitate. The D.M. said only to give the information to Marcelitis in exchange for the cipher. Can he be relied upon to live up to his end of the bargain? “This is the only way you are going to get the information,” he adds, sensing my uncertainty.
He’s right, of course. I have no other choice. I reach in my bag for the papers, trembling. As I start to pull them out, Marcelitis extends his hand expectantly, his pale, bony fingers creeping out from his coat sleeve. Something gold glows on one of his fingers. A wedding ring. But Alek had said that Marcelitis was not married. Uneasiness rises up inside me. Something is not right. Easy, I think. Alek told me about Marcelitis several years ago. Perhaps he is only recently married. But something still seems wrong. I hesitate, uncertain what to do.
“Mr. Marcelitis,” I begin, shifting my weight, stalling for time. “I understand that we may have a mutual friend….”
“Yes, of course. Marek Andek.”
“Not only him. I understand that you also know another friend of mine, a resistance leader from Kraków during the war?”
“Who are you speaking of?” he asks impatiently. “The police could be here at any time. I really cannot play guessing games.”
“Alek Landesberg.”
“Yes, of course, Alek,” the man replies quickly.
I take a deep breath. “Have you had news of him lately?”
“Just last month,” the man replies. “I saw him in Berlin.”
If this man were really Marcelitis, he would have known that Alek is dead. I look down at the papers in my hand. My heart pounds. “I—I just realized that these are not the right papers,” I say, putting the papers back in my bag. “I have to go back to the hotel to get them….”
“Stop playing games,” the man orders sharply. “Just give me the papers.” He steps toward me and, before I can react, seizes me by both shoulders. I twist, struggling to get away, but the man’s grasp is too strong. He reaches down with one hand to grab my bag. He must not get the papers. Adrenaline shoots through me. Quickly, I lift my left foot and bring it down hard on his instep. The man grunts and jerks back, loosening his grip slightly. I pull away hard, breaking free and leaping backward. The man growls and lunges toward me again. He raises his right hand and I can see that he is clutching something that glints silver in the moonlight. He swings the knife wildly toward me, just missing my shoulder. I step back and he raises the knife, preparing to lunge again. The gun, I remember suddenly, reaching into my bag. But before I can pull it out, he leaps forward. I brace myself and raise my right foot. As he comes at me, I kick him hard in the shin.
“Aah!” the man cries, lifting his leg. But the blow was not serious enough to stop him for long. I have to act now, while he is off balance. I reach out with both hands and push him hard, sending him flying backward onto the ground. Then I turn and begin running toward the end of the bridge.
Behind me, I hear the man scramble to his feet, then start to run after me. Don’t look back, I think as his footsteps grow closer. At the end of the bridge, I turn left, running harder. My lungs feel as though they are about to explode. I make a quick right onto another street. Then I duck into an alley, scanning its length. It is bare, completely exposed, except for a door at the end and a large trash bin. Desperately, I run to the door and pull hard on the handle, but it is locked and refuses to budge. I hear footsteps in the street, growing louder. The bald man, whoever he is, will be here any second. I run to the trash bin and climb over the high edge. Trash bags cushion my landing on the other side. The stench of garbage is overwhelming. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then, when I can stand it no longer, take a shallow breath. A gag rises in the back of my throat. Stifling it, I force myself to burrow deeper into the garbage, pulling one of the bags on top of me.
The man’s footsteps reach the entrance to the alleyway, stop. I lie motionless, my heart pounding. A minute passes, seeming like an eternity. Then, I hear foot
steps again, growing fainter as he disappears down the street.
For several seconds, I remain frozen in the trash bin, too afraid to move. My mind races. The man on the bridge was not Marcelitis, but an imposter who wanted the information I am carrying, enough to kill me. But how had he known that I would be there? I think of Marek, who arranged the meeting. Has he betrayed me?
I have to keep going, I realize. The man might try to come back when he cannot find me on the street. And Renata will be waiting. I climb from the trash bin, brushing myself off as well as I can. I creep to the front of the alleyway, then stop, listening. Hearing nothing, I peer out into the deserted street. My skin prickles. Has the man really gone or is he just hiding somewhere, waiting? I take a breath, then step out into the street, half expecting him to leap out and attack me once more. But the street remains silent. Exhaling, I turn in the direction from which I came and begin retracing my steps.
As I walk, I think again about the bald man. Who is he? And what happened to the real Marcelitis? I was not able to make contact with him or obtain the cipher. For a minute I consider abandoning my rendezvous with Renata and going to the bar again, to try to find Marek and ask for his help once more in reaching Marcelitis. But even as I think it, I know that it is impossible. I do not even know if the D.M. would want me to continue my mission under such circumstances. I will go meet Renata. She will know what to do.
When I have backtracked to the river, I follow the directions Renata gave me. Soon I reach Krizovnicka Street and follow it until it intersects with Platnerska. I scan the opposite side of the street. There is an archway, as Renata described, but it appears to be empty. Running from the bald man has made me late, I know. Perhaps Renata was not able to wait for me any longer. As I cross the street, the front bumper of Renata’s Wartburg comes into view and I can hear the engine running. Relieved, I hurry toward the car.
