by Neil Maresca
Sasha, Lukas, and Father Márton waited patiently in their compartment, watching as the Germans marched smartly away. A few moments after the SS had exited the cavernous station, Father Márton, pointed to a shadow in the far reaches of the hall, nudged Sasha, and whispered “There!”
Sasha leaned forward, her eyes searching the darkness until she found what Father Márton was pointing at—a small, lean figure in black, clinging to the shadows like a vampire in fear of the light.
“Come on,” Father Márton said as he swung the heavy bags down from their rack overhead and hurried out the door. Sasha raced behind as fast as her skirts would allow, while Lukas struggled along as best he could with his suitcase. They scurried off into the shadows where Father Márton stopped, put his bags down, and motioned Sasha and Lukas to silence. All three peered into the darkness that surrounded them, waiting for the black-clad figure to reveal himself—or itself, as Sasha feared.
Gradually, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, Sasha was able to distinguish a vague form slowly coalescing out of the shadows. She squeezed Lukas’ hand tightly, and held her breath.
Father Márton smiled. “It’s alright, Ambrose,” he said. “We are quite safe here.”
Ambrose stepped forward into the half-light, where Sasha saw that he looked nothing like what she had imagined. To her great relief and embarrassment, the person standing before her was anything but frightening. In fact, he looked more frightened of them, than she had been of him. Ambrose, a young seminarian recruited by Father Márton to help shepherd Sasha and Lukas while they were in Croatia, looked barely old enough to shave.
“Father Márton,” he said as he timidly approached the small group, “It is an honor to serve you.”
“You do not serve me,” Father Márton replied with some severity. “You serve Jesus Christ, and no other.”
“Of course,” the abashed and embarrassed seminarian said. “Forgive me Father. I only meant that I am greatly honored that you chose me to be of service.” And Sasha, who only moments before had dreaded his appearance, now felt pity for the young man, who with his shock of brown hair and baby face looked like a slightly older version of Lukas.
“You have the car?”
“Yes Father.”
“Good, then let’s be on our way. Help Lukas with his bag.”
The small group, now led by Ambrose, made its way out of the terminal by a side entrance and into an alleyway where a rather dilapidated sedan awaited their arrival.
“Is this the best you could arrange?” Father Márton asked.
“You said you wanted to be inconspicuous,” Ambrose responded, concerned that he had failed in his very first assignment.
“You are right,” Márton said. “I’m afraid the plans have changed, and there is no way you could have known that. The Countess will be staying at the Grand Excelsior instead of the convent as originally planned.”
“Is that wise?”
“No, but it is necessary. Go and find a suitable transport for the Countess, and after you have done that, proceed as planned to take Lukas to the monastery. I will join you there later with further instructions.”
Ambrose ran immediately to fulfil Father Márton’s orders, and when he was out of sight, Sasha turned to Márton.
“He looks very young,” she said.
“Young, brilliant, and eager to serve. What he lacks in experience, he will make up for in enthusiasm, and what he lacks in physical strength will be more than compensated by the power of his faith.”
Their conversation was cut short by the sound of a car turning into the alley. They looked up to see Ambrose running ahead of a taxi, directing it to where they were waiting. Márton helped Sasha into the Taxi, gave one last set of instructions to Ambrose, and drove off with the Countess to the Grand Excelsior where they hoped that she would be able to find a room without having made a reservation.
Lukas watched expressionless as his mother and Father Márton drove away.
“Well,” said Ambrose cheerfully—or at least he hoped it sounded cheerful to Lukas, even though he was painfully aware that it sounded weak and scared. “Shall we go?”
Father Márton and Sasha approached the Grand Excelsior with some trepidation. Sasha’s conversation with General Von Piehl had made it very clear to her that he could, at any time, and for any reason, have her and Lukas detained, perhaps even imprisoned as ‘Jewish sympathizers,” and it was this fear that had prompted her to lie to him about her travel plans. The Nazis did not look kindly on people leaving German-controlled areas and seeking asylum in neutral countries. Sasha doubted that the General was concerned with German security, or if he even cared if she looked kindly on Jews. He was a predator; she was sure of it. He saw an attractive female with only a Jesuit priest to protect her, and his animal instincts shifted into high gear. She was vulnerable. She had a son, and even though Von Piehl had not threatened her, it was clear that if she did not cooperate, she and her son would suffer.
She had told him she was traveling to Zagreb to recover from the loss of her husband and to shield her son from danger. Part of that was true, but she could not tell him the whole truth, that she was planning to escape from German-occupied territory completely, and find her way to Switzerland, and hopefully, to England. So she had told him she was staying at the Grand Excelsior, Zagreb’s most prestigious address. It’s what was expected of a Countess. Anything less would have been, in the General’s words, ‘suspicious.’ Unfortunately, she had no reservation, and even a Countess could not expect to simply show up at the Grand Excelsior and find a room waiting for her.
So, it was with a degree of anxiety that she approached the reception desk, announced herself, and requested a room off the main square, quiet, in keeping with her status as a recent widow. She was quite surprised to find that her room was waiting for her, but the clerk apologized, it was not a quiet room at the back of the hotel but a suite of rooms in the front of the hotel. “The General had insisted,” he said.
“Of course,” Sasha replied, “he means well, but as I am in mourning, I would prefer something smaller and quieter.”
“The General will not be happy,” the clerk said with some discomfit, anticipating having to explain to a German general why his orders were not followed. “I assure you Countess, the room will be very quiet.”
“It may well be, but it is not in keeping with my station, and I will not occupy it.”
The clerk protested, but Sasha held firm. She had two reasons for wanting the smaller room. The first was that she had no doubt that the General had reserved the suite for his comfort, not hers. The other was that she wanted to have easy access to the back stairs should she have to make a quick or secretive exit.
The clerk was sweating profusely, and holding the key in a trembling hand. He was obviously in terrible fear of the General’s wrath.
Father Márton came to his rescue, quietly suggesting to Sasha that it would be the safer course to accept the hospitality offered, rather than risk giving offense. To the clerk’s great relief, Sasha finally acquiesced, and allowed her bags to be carried to the suite. She received a second surprise when she entered the room and found a lady’s maid waiting for her. How Von Piehl had arranged all this on such short notice was beyond Sasha’s understanding, but she recognized it as a sign of just how important he was, and how much power he could wield.
Father Márton stayed with Sasha until she was settled into her room. He wanted to stay longer, but Sasha assured him she could handle the General if he showed up, so he left to keep an appointment with the person who was supposed to be providing them with new identities, passports, and travel permits.
Ambrose and Lukas drove to the monastery in almost total silence. The seminarian tried several times to engage Lukas in conversation but failed miserably each time. He attributed this to the events of the last several days. Father Márton had told him about the assassination, and that, combined with the long train ride, Ambrose concluded, explained
the boy’s silence. He must be in shock, he thought. I can’t imagine how frightened he must have been, and how frightened he most likely still is. And now he has been separated from his mother and his mentor and thrown into a car with a stranger going who knows where to what uncertain future. It’s no wonder he doesn’t speak.
Lukas looked at the man in the seat next to him, and concluded that he was a good man. At another time, or in another life, Lukas thought, they might have been friends, but this was this time and this life, and there was no place for friendships. There was danger everywhere. Lukas knew it; you would have to be brain-dead to miss it. In Hungary, there were the communists, Nazis, Arrow Cross, all vying for power, and here in Croatia, there was the Ustaše and the Nazis on one side, and Josef Broz Tito and his partisans on the other. And over all of this was the even more frightening threat of the Russians. Even at 10 years of age, Lukas knew this was no time to forge friendships—even if you thought you could trust that person, especially if you thought you could trust that person. Nothing lasts.
Lukas looked out the window as the car moved along narrow country roads and marveled at the beauty. This part of Croatia had so far been spared the pain of warfare. Fighting raged in the mountains, but here, outside the capital, in hills and valleys where man had not yet found the time or inclination to bomb, burn, or kill, peasants worked the fields as they had for generations, crops grew, flowers bloomed and the only sounds were those of myriads of birds singing what Father Márton would undoubtedly call a hymn to the beauty of God’s creation.
Lukas was reminded of happier days—days spent on the family’s country estate. He had forgotten. It was beautiful there once too. He wondered what it looked like now. It seemed to him that his world was getting smaller and smaller, darker and more dangerous.
The car stopped and Ambrose led him across a pleasant courtyard into an unadorned brick building, down a hall and into a small, spartanly-furnished room. There was a cot, a desk and chair, and one window that looked out on to a garden where several monks were working.
Ambrose, who appeared to Lukas to be ill at ease and nervous, hung about for a short while after dropping Lukas’ bag on the bed. Eventually, he said, “Well I guess you want to rest after your long journey,” and backed out of the room. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said as he closed the solid oaken door behind him.
Lukas looked around. With its grille-covered window, heavy door and basic furnishings, the room looked like a prison cell, and for a moment Lukas thought that he had been betrayed. Then he remembered that he was in a monastery, and he realized why the monks’ rooms were referred to as ‘cells.’ That gave him some comfort, that and the thought that Father Márton had arranged everything. He had faith in Father Márton, and even though he doubted Ambrose’s ability to defend him from Fargas and others like him, he was glad he was outside the door, because, at that moment, he was feeling very alone and very, very, frightened.
Father Márton was worried. The first day into what was a complex and difficult plan, and already there were complications—dangerous complications. He was convinced that General Von Piehl hadn’t believed a word that Sasha had told him, and even if he had, he must have realized it was all a lie as soon as he found out that she did not have a reservation at the Grand Excelsior. And Von Piehl would not be happy when he learned that Lukas was not with her.
Sasha was in great danger. The General would use Lukas to gain what he wanted from her. She could repulse the General’s unwanted advances as long as it was only herself she had to worry about, but she would do anything to protect Lukas, and the General knew it. But the boy’s disappearance weakened his position, and would, no doubt, cause trouble for Sasha.
Von Piehl’s only interest in Sasha was sexual. He hadn’t the slightest interest in her dash for freedom in the West, but Márton understood that if his sexual desires were thwarted or denied, there was no telling what he might do to Sasha and Lukas to mollify his damaged ego.
He had to work fast—much faster than he had originally planned. The problem was that he had no control over the people he was working with. He could work within the Church to find food and shelter, but the Church couldn’t help with forged documents. For those, he had to work with a variety of unsavory characters, none of whom were trustworthy. He had names and addresses, all whispered to him by friends of friends who didn’t want to be involved, but knew somebody who knew somebody who might be able to help. He had winnowed these names down to those he thought would be the most reliable, but it was all hearsay; he really had no idea what he would find when he approached these people. There was a very real possibility that he would be immediately arrested, or assaulted, although the latter thought didn’t worry him too much.
Lukas tossed on his cot, unable to sleep. “Ambrose,” he called. “Are you there?”
The door opened and Ambrose stepped in. “Yes Lukas,” he said. “I am here.”
“Will you stay with me for a while?”
“Of course,” Ambrose said and took a seat at the desk.
“I’m worried about Mama.”
“I’m sure she’s alright. Father Márton is with her, and there is no one in the world I would trust more than him to keep her safe.”
Ambrose had no idea where Lukas’ mother was, or if Father Márton were with her or not, but he thought that the idea would help to calm Lukas’ fears, and he was right. Lukas, who had been wrapped tightly in his blankets, sat upright in the bed and looked at Ambrose.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“20. I just turned 20 on Christmas day.”
“You were born on Christmas day?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you became a priest?”
“I’m not a priest yet, and I’m afraid that I may never be a priest—but yes, I believe that had something to do with it.”
“Why do you think you will never become a priest? Don’t you like it?”
“Oh yes! I’m very happy being a priest—or at least trying to be a priest, but I don’t think I am worthy.”
“Why not? Do you think about girls?”
Ambrose broke into laughter. “And what do you know about girls, Lukas?”
“Not much. Some are nice and some aren’t. Mostly the pretty ones aren’t nice. I don’t know many girls. In Budapest, Mama and Father Márton taught me at home, so I didn’t see many girls. But I would hear the servants talking about girls sometimes, and Father Márton warned me to stay away from them, and not to think about them. He said it was a sin to think about them, but it didn’t stop the boys in the streets from thinking about them—or talking about them either. They talked about girls all the time.”
“Did you tell your confessor that you listened to the boys?” Ambrose asked, concerned that Lukas had been exposed to sin at a much-too-tender age.
“No. The priest said it was a sin to think about girls. He didn’t say anything about listening to boys talking about them. I didn’t commit a sin, did I Father,” Lukas asked, suddenly worried that he had inadvertently done something wrong.
“No, I’m sure you haven’t—and don’t call me Father, not yet anyway. I am just Ambrose, and I hope we can be friends.”
Lukas looked at him in silence for a moment, staring at him as if he could see into his soul. Ambrose found it a little unnerving.
“We can be friends, but only if we trust each other and tell the truth. Do you promise to always tell the truth?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Alright then, do you think about girls? Is that why you think you are unworthy?”
Ambrose laughed again, but he answered seriously. “Yes, I think about girls. I try not to, but I’m afraid I think about them rather too much. But, no, that is not the reason I think I may be unworthy to be a priest.”
“Why then?”
“Because I have doubts.”
“About what?”
“About God, but that is far too complex an issue for a young man who ne
eds his sleep. I have some fun things planned for tomorrow and you will need to be well rested.”
Ambrose rose from the chair and went to the door. “Good night Lukas,” he said as he exited.
“Good night Ambrose,” Lukas responded. “And Ambrose….”
“Yes Lukas?”
“I have doubts too.”
Sasha had fallen asleep as soon as she lay down on the bed. She was dreaming of happier days when she and Milán were first married when she heard a light tapping on the door, and a female voice gently calling “Countess?”
She pulled herself up out of deep, satisfying sleep, and for a few moments didn’t know where she was; but gradually she returned to reality, and called out to the lady’s maid, whose voice she recognized, “Yes, what is it?”
“It’s the General, my Lady. He is in the salon. He has asked if you would join him. What shall I say? I told him you were sleeping, but he said to wake you.”
Sasha thought of several thousand things she would like to say to the General, but she settled on a promise to appear after she had time to ‘make herself presentable.’
She called Petra, the maid, into the room. Sasha had no doubt that Petra had been hired by, and reported to Von Piehl, but she didn’t seem too intelligent, and, Sasha thought, might therefore be used to advantage.
“Petra,” Sasha said sweetly, “Can you help me. I have to look my best for the General.”
Petra responded quickly. “How can I help, Madam?” she asked.
“Let’s start with my hair. I’m afraid it’s a mess from traveling. And while you fix it,” she added in a girlishly excited voice, “you can tell me all about the General….”
Father Márton stopped walking and pulled a crumpled up paper from his pocket. He studied it for a minute, and then looked up at a shoemaker’s shop across the street. He checked the paper one more time, stuffed it back in his pocket and walked toward the shop.
