Ilona straightened. “Don’t cry for me, Eva.” She had stopped crying and sounded calm. “I’m going to survive. I know it.”
“I’m so sorry. For what I said. I’m so sorry.” Eva cried harder.
Ilona reached for Eva’s hand and squeezed it. “You don’t have to apologize,” she said. She gave her friend a little smile. “Promise me you’ll try to get some candy. The princess, Eva. Try for the princess. For me.”
. . .
Eva watched her parents leave the next day. The guards were everywhere, yelling and grabbing people by their shirt collars, hauling them forcibly into cattle cars as people cried and clutched at loved ones. They begged not to be sent. Eva watched as one guard, laughing, tore a sobbing toddler from her parents’ arms and tossed her carelessly into a car like a sack of flour. Eva gagged and turned to her parents, filled not only with grief now, but bitterness and bile. She noticed that her mother’s hair, once a rich chestnut that tumbled down her back, was now steel gray and cropped short. Her father, the famous professor, stooped instead of standing tall, and most of his hair was now completely gone. Both were painfully thin. Eva hugged them tightly, trying to hold on to them in her mind: not only the look of them, but the softness of her mother’s hands, the stubble on her father’s cheek when she kissed him. Eva stayed, frozen in one spot, until the last car of the train was no longer visible. She clutched the soldier doll, safe in her pocket, for support, tracing her nails along its outline, scraping against its paint.
When the train was finally and truly gone, she slowly turned away, whispering the Jewish prayer for safe travel, the Tefilat Ha’derech: “Yehi ratson mil’fanecha, Adonai eloheinu veilohei avotei-nu. Shetolicheinu l’shalom.” “May it be Your will, Eternal One, our God and the God of our ancestors, that You lead us toward peace, emplace our footsteps toward peace.”
Eva walked away from the station. As she got closer to the barracks, she remembered Ilona wouldn’t be there and found she couldn’t go on, not just yet. She sat down on a large rock and touched her own plain brown hair, straight and dirty and unremarkable. Why Ilona, with her beautiful golden curls, and not her? It didn’t seem fair.
Eva had said her final good-bye to Ilona that morning. Resolute and stoic, Ilona had walked away with Emil and Alex, telling Eva she’d see her in America. She hadn’t cried again. With Eva’s help, she had pinned back her beautiful hair. “I don’t want them to cut it,” Ilona had confessed the night before. “I heard they make the girls cut their hair. Maybe if it’s pinned, they won’t notice it.”
The hours passed, and Eva remained seated, still, on her rock. It was Adam who found her, staring into the distance at nothing.
“Eva?” His voice was uncertain.
She looked up briefly. “Adam.”
“You should come to rehearsal.”
Eva gave a short laugh. “What for? You were right, you know. It’s all nonsense. Pitomost.”
“I wasn’t. I was wrong.” He kicked a rock as he spoke; they both watched as it rolled away in the dust.
“You weren’t. They took Ilona, you know.”
“I know.” He sat down next to her. “My sister, too. She’s only five.”
Eva felt her eyes fill with tears. Five years old. “I’m sorry, Adam.”
“Me too.” He was hunched forward, his head in his hands. Eva watched as he clutched at his hair: he winced as the wiry black strands came loose. He examined them before tossing them into the wind.
They sat quietly for a moment.
“Krása, he was right, though.” Adam spoke up again. He let go of his hair and folded and unfolded his hands in his lap. “I see that now.”
“How? They took your sister.” Eva’s voice was hard.
“Exactly. I’m all that’s left of our family.” Adam sounded tired, but his voice rang with a quiet resolve. He sat up straighter. “Who will tell Miriam’s story? Or my parents’, or Ilona’s?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Eva sounded bitter. She turned away from Adam and stared at a newly planted fir tree. She felt a fresh wave of resentment at its bright green needles.
“It has to do with hope, I think. If we sing, we have hope, still. And if we have hope, we might survive.” He put out his hand. “Come with me now.”
Eva went to rehearsal. And when the Red Cross came, she sang. She sang as she had never sung before, for her parents, for Adam’s sister, for Ilona. She sang in a voice that was loud and clear and true. And she waited, and she hoped. But the Red Cross came and then went. The grass died, and the chocolates disappeared, and the prince and princess crumbled to dust. And the lists went up again.
Chapter 8
Toronto, Canada
2007
“Come in, guys.” Dr. McLeod is waiting for them when they arrive. They’re a few minutes late; finding parking proved to be a challenge today. Usually easy-going and even-tempered, her father becomes Mr. Hyde when driving or parking the car. As she hid in her seat while he swore and railed against other drivers, Elizabeth resolved to make a case for public transportation in the future.
Elizabeth studies Dr. McLeod. She seems cheerful enough—she’s smiling, anyway.
Elizabeth and her father exchange a glance. A good sign? Elizabeth wonders. Dr. McLeod waves them in, directing them to the table. “I was just on the phone with a colleague overseas,” she says. She’s wearing a long denim tunic with purple embroidery today and a pair of orange ballet flats. “About your find, actually.” She sits down and motions for them to do the same. As she settles into her chair, Elizabeth notes that the pile of journals that toppled over like dominoes last week is still in a heap on the floor. There are also several textbooks strewn around under the table. She tries not to hit any with her chair as she pulls it in closer to Dr. McLeod’s desk.
“So.” Dr. McLeod looks at them. She crosses and uncrosses her fingers, then crosses them again. She grins mischievously. “How’s everyone doing?”
Elizabeth and John look at each other again.
“Okay, thanks,” says Elizabeth cautiously. At the same time, John blurts out, “Is it the real thing?”
“Dad!” says Elizabeth, scandalized.
Dr. McLeod laughs. She winks at Elizabeth. “Is he always like this?”
“Worse, usually.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes and gives her dad a playful punch on the arm.
“I’m sorry.” John looks abashed. He pauses. “But—is it?”
Dr. McLeod smiles. She reaches for a red folder and shuffles some papers. “I can’t say for certain, of course. No one can, except perhaps Merriweather, if she’s still alive. But in my professional opinion—I would say there is a strong possibility. Probability, even.”
John exhales. “Is that as close to ‘yes’ as we’re going to get?” he asks.
Dr. McLeod nods. “I can’t say for certain, right? But put it this way: that’s as good an answer as you could have hoped for.”
John looks triumphant. He reaches over and squeezes Elizabeth’s hand. “Quite a birthday present, huh, Liz? Who knew?”
Elizabeth grins. She can’t wait to tell Evan. She’d let him know the night before on Facebook that they were coming to see Dr. McLeod today. He’d told her to text him right away when she found out. “Boris and I need to know immediately,” he’d messaged back, and she’d laughed.
Dr. McLeod reaches for a pair of purple glasses and opens the folder. “The lab results all match up,” she says. “I’ll spare you the boring details, but in terms of the wood and stuff, it’s all what you would expect for a wooden toy from the southwestern part of England. And it’s definitely early twentieth century.”
John bangs the table in excitement. “I knew it. I knew it was real! I had a feeling.”
Elizabeth pats her father on the arm and exchanges an amused glance with Dr. Mc
Leod. Neither of them mentions the Titanic incident or the number of times John’s “had a feeling” about something from a garage sale.
“Just a second there, John,” says Dr. McLeod kindly. She pushes her glasses back up on her nose; they have slid halfway down it from laughing. “I do think there is a good chance it might be. But there are a few oddities I wish I could explain. They don’t threaten the authenticity, really; I just wish I understood what they meant.”
“Such as?” John sits up a little straighter. “The uniform color thing you mentioned last time?”
“Exactly,” says Dr. McLeod. She’s shuffling through some papers now, looking for something. “Another thing that came up was that the boots appear to have been repainted more recently—maybe fifty years ago.” She picks up the doll and holds it out so they can see. “I did an analysis, and from what we can tell, that paint was made from organic materials. One of the compounds identified is native to Asia.”
They all stare at the boots. “What does that mean?” asks Elizabeth tentatively.
Dr. McLeod looks at her. “It means that our little soldier doll somehow made its way from England, to Germany, to somewhere in Asia, and then—at some point—to Canada.” She sits back and lets the others absorb this information.
“Asia!” says Elizabeth, floored. She pauses. “Couldn’t it just be that the paint was manufactured there?”
“Good question,” says Dr. McLeod approvingly. “But I don’t think so. From what we can tell, it’s not a commercially prepared paint. It’s made from plant materials. In Asia, that kind of paint is usually used for traditional silk screening art.”
Elizabeth has no idea what that is, but makes a mental note to Google it later and nods, avoiding eye contact in case someone should ask her thoughts on silk screening. She notices a firefighter calendar hanging on the wall, one of those ones where the firemen aren’t wearing any shirts. She fights a sudden urge to laugh.
“I wonder how it got here.” Elizabeth’s dad is thinking aloud, talking to himself. He reaches for a paper clip and taps it against the table absently.
“Me too,” says Dr. McLeod. “Unfortunately, science can only take us so far. I have been thinking, though. If you publicize the find, people may come forward. People who were in possession of the doll.” Curious, she looks at them. “What is your plan? Can I ask?”
Elizabeth and her father exchange a glance. A plan is not something they’ve discussed.
Elizabeth clears her throat. “I kind of want to give it back to her. To Margaret Merriweather. It’s hers; she lost it.”
Her dad looks surprised. “I didn’t know that was your plan,” he says.
Elizabeth shrugs. “It doesn’t feel right to sell it or whatever,” she says. “Not since she’s still alive, you know?”
“Is she alive, then?” asks Dr. McLeod. She looks amazed. “I just assumed she had passed. She must be ancient.”
“She is,” says Elizabeth.
“Well, the women of that generation were a hardy lot,” says Dr. McLeod.
Her father gives her another look of surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d looked into this, Liz.”
“Yeah.” She reddens. “Is that okay? I know it was your birthday present, Dad. I’ll find you something else. Maybe a nice butter dish?” she smiles slyly.
“Funny.” He grins. “It’s very admirable of you, Liz.”
She shrugs again, embarrassed. “I’m going to e-mail her publisher.”
Her father picks up the soldier doll. He gives it a piercing stare, as if willing it to share its secrets.
Dr. McLeod nods at them as she takes off her purple glasses and swaps them for a green pair stuck underneath a sheaf of file folders. “It’s been through at least two European wars and then to Asia,” she says. “How the heck did it get here? That’s what I’d most like to know.”
Chapter 9
Da Nang, Vietnam
1970
“Here you go, Boots.” Mike Stepanek tossed the last cardboard box to the man on his left and sat down next to him, wedging his own box open with his penknife.
“Damn it!” Boots peered inside his C-Ration can and gagged exaggeratedly, turning toward Mike. “Ham and lima beans again! Third day in a row. God hates me, College.” He spat at the ground, accidentally hitting one of his oversized boots. The others watched as the saliva trickled down its side, disappearing in the bottomless mud beneath his enormous feet.
“You knew that already, Boots,” piped up Red. He stuck a fork in his own can of spaghetti. “Otherwise He wouldn’t have sent you here. He would have given you a rich daddy or the brains to go to college.” He stole a glance at Mike and blushed, his skin blending with his ginger hair. “Sorry, College.”
“No problem,” said Mike automatically. He was used to it. The other guys in the platoon couldn’t understand why he hadn’t applied for a deferral. To be fair, his college friends back in Boston never got it either.
“It’s not a fair war, Stepanek.” That had been Scott’s refrain. He must have repeated it a thousand times, like a responsive reading in church that goes on and on. No matter what Mike said, Scott had only that one answer. “Two weeks ago you’re protesting front and center. Now you’re going off to war? For what? It’s just not fair, man.”
Karen, too, had begged him not to go when his number came up. “There are options,” she’d pleaded. “You could go to Canada. You’re being foolish, Mike.”
Karen. Mike closed his eyes and tried to picture her, but after months in the jungle her face was fading, somehow, as if he were looking at it through the shallow water that pooled in the rice paddies. Her hair, he could remember that. Long and dark and shiny, the color of coffee when you’ve added just a bit of cream. It always smelled good: clean and fresh, like Johnson’s baby shampoo. Subconsciously, he reached for his own hair. Like the rest of him, it was filthy, caked with a permanent layer of either mud or dust, depending on the season. The filth had been difficult to get used to. When he’d first arrived in the bush, he’d been overwhelmed by the smell, both of the latrines and his comrades.
Now, however, the smell barely registered. A sort of mishmash of feces and unwashed bodies and cigarette smoke was now nothing more than the olfactory equivalent of white noise. No one noticed it, and thus it went unmentioned.
Six months since he’d landed in Da Nang, Vietnam. Not that long, really, but somehow, like Karen’s face, life before was becoming more and more difficult to remember. “The World” the troops called it, referring to the States and home. Mike had found that strange when he’d arrived. Wasn’t ’Nam part of the world? But after a trek or two into the jungle, he’d understood. The territory was so strange, so foreign to kids from New York or Kentucky or California that it might as well have been an entirely separate planet: the elephant grass that grew taller than a man and was twice as hard to knock down; the tree canopies that grew so dense that day felt like night and night like death; the heat that felt as if you were being roasted on a stick like a marshmallow at a campfire. You couldn’t understand ’Nam until you’d lived it, not if you were a regular kid from Boston or Philly or wherever. And yet somehow, he’d done well here. He often said that he’d been made squad leader only because he’d been lucky enough not to get himself killed in his first five months of service, but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. The men looked up to him, trusted him. They listened to what he had to say.
“You’re leadership material, Stepanek.” Lieutenant Baker was constantly after him to go to officer’s school. “You’d do well at Quantico,” he’d said again a night or two ago, referring to the officer training school back in Virginia. He’d taken a long drag on his cigarette and offered it to Mike. “You’ve got the brains, and you’re a good squad leader, College.”
“Thanks, sir,” Mike had replied politely, taking the cigarette. He had
no intention of becoming a lifer. As soon as his tour of duty was over, he was going home. Back to Boston College, back to his guitar, back to the World. He’d reached into his pocket and felt for the tiny soldier. Still there. He’d touched its head and felt that familiar sensation wash over him: comfort. It had been passed on to him by his mother; it was the only remnant of her childhood at a Prague orphanage. Her good-luck charm; she’d kept it close during her escape from Czechoslovakia, where it had been a gift from the nuns. The little soldier was the only token Mike had brought with him to Vietnam. He was careful never to let the guys see it. What would they think of him, carrying around a stupid doll?
Boots was still complaining. “Three days, man. Three days! And I thought this was cherry, and it’s grape. Which one of you jerks screwed me on the Kool-Aid?” He waved his canteen wildly, glowering.
“Shut up, will you!” Miles looked up from his can of peaches. His real name was Charles, but his surname was Davis and he was black; so they’d immediately christened him Miles—after the famous jazz musician Miles Davis—when he’d arrived four months ago. “All day long, you complaining. Here.” He tossed his own canteen at Boots. “Choo-choo cherry. All yours, man.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Boots threw his canteen at Miles, who caught it without looking up, deep in concentration over his peaches.
The five of them were heading out again tonight. They were lucky to have had any reprieve at all—platoons were known to spend weeks in the jungle now—but even during the two days back at camp, they had quickly become comfortable with the relative luxury of proper sleeping hooches and the occasional hot meal. No one was looking forward to moving out.
“The birds’ll be in around nineteen hundred hours,” Sarge had informed the troops earlier that day, referring to the helicopters that would drop them off in the wilds of the jungle. They’d known already—Fries, the radio operator, had given them the heads-up the night before—but hearing the details from Sarge forced the men to swallow the reality like the anti-malarial tablets that yellowed their skin and gave them chronic diarrhea. “More instructions to follow. Any questions?”
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