A Sparrow in Terezin

by Kristy Cambron

  Liam didn’t flinch from her question. Instead, he looked to have anticipated it. He leaned in until they were eye to eye and searching her face, whispered back, “I believe the Yanks call them spooks.”

  “No matter what they’re called—I think you are one.”

  “And do I look like a spy to you, Miss Makovský?”

  “I hate to puff up an already arrogant peacock, but I have reason to believe that you and your typewriter may be involved with British intelligence. Working with exiled governments in London, perhaps, or carrying out operations overseas. And you’re sending codes out, right here in this newspaper.”

  “May I?” he asked, and reached for her book.

  Kája nodded agreement. He slid the book out from under her hands and lifted the sheets of paper from beneath it. Liam scanned the pages, then dropped them on the table and reclined back in his chair.

  “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.”

  In spite of herself, Kája fought back the shadow of a smile.

  “Journalists don’t just happen across British intelligence codes hidden in crossword puzzles. Unless they put them there themselves.”

  “And secretaries don’t complete crossword puzzles like this.”

  “This one does.” She tipped her chin up in defiance.

  “How long did it take you?”

  “I don’t know. Ten minutes, maybe. Why?” she added, staring back at his reclined form.

  “No reason.” He may have brushed it off, but the look on his face had changed. He seemed more intent somehow. More focused.

  “You travel more than any other crossword creator I’ve ever heard of.”

  “It’s war time, Kája. Every man is traveling right now, including me. I am assigned to the war beat, or have you forgotten? I’m not immune to serving my country.”

  “And yet you never appear in uniform. I think you don’t, because you can’t—being undercover.”

  Liam leaned forward again but this time, allowed the front legs of his chair to connect hard against the floor. Seriousness flashed in his eyes and he met her glare head-on.

  Kája wasn’t put off by the change of temperature in the room. In fact, the plan had worked. Her attempt to prick the edges of his temper had drawn the earnestness out of him, enough anyway that she thought he might actually tell her the truth.

  “You also speak German,” she said, her breath hitched on a gentle pause. “But you pretend that you don’t.”

  “And how have you come to that conclusion?”

  A soft sigh escaped her lips.

  “Have you forgotten when that informant came to the Telegraph office last month? He was from Berlin and you greeted him. Quietly, but I heard you. They may have whisked the pair of you into a private office but I was standing by, doing Edmunton’s mindless filing in the cabinets. From there, I heard all I needed to. In fact, you have a knack for languages. And codes, according to this hidden message telling anyone who deciphers it to contact the paper.” She held up the crossword puzzle before him. “Why Edmunton would employ you in writing the crossword puzzles with your skills is beyond me.”

  “Are you accusing us of something?”

  The directness in his tone was a bit out of character. It didn’t hold the usual hint of a smile one would have expected from him. He was more intent now. His words carefully chosen, with the true depth of his interest just held at bay.

  “Other than the fact that you’re not covering your tracks very well? Not a thing. But since you’re so keen on advice, here’s some for you: you might want to come up with a better story if you want to fool anyone other than your grandmother about what you’re doing.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Liam, I heard you’ve been called into the RAF, yet I know the quality of your eyesight. I think that’s why you read down here, to stay out of sight in your glasses. That gives doubt to your pilot story altogether; they couldn’t pass you as a flyer. And articles are sent to The Telegraph written by a mysterious journalist who remains nameless, only he is privy to quite sensitive information. Information that only His Majesty’s intelligence service would know. Those articles are printed under Edmunton’s name, are they not? And being his secretary, I’ve seen more than one piece of paper come across his desk with the name Bletchley on it—though he tries to keep those in his locked filing cabinet. So I think all this has to do with more than writing stories for the newspaper. In fact, you’re always asking me to change the ribbon in your prized Remington, but I submit that I’ve never actually seen you use that typewriter. Not once.”

  “Is that so?” Liam hesitated, but only briefly.

  “Where do you go all the time? You’re not writing here in this office, so you must be doing it somewhere else.”

  Evading her question entirely, he noted, “This office doesn’t have the monopoly on typewriters.”

  “Regardless, all the facts point to it. You’re not who you say you are, Liam Marshall. There’s something going on here and I want to know what it is.”

  Liam looked back at her, with shoulders squared and glare direct, and did the one thing she’d have never expected: he smiled. Any shred of irritation melted away and he let loose a wide-toothed grin that melted over his face and would have stopped the heart of every other secretary in the office.

  “Miss me, did you?”

  “What?” Her forehead crinkled on its own.

  “Admit it,” he ordered, the grin happily plastered across his face. “All those times I’ve been gone. You missed seeing me around here.”

  Insufferable. The man was insufferable to no end. “I said all of that and ‘You missed me’ is what you took from it?”

  “I think you have an overactive imagination.”

  “Not quite.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no. I don’t judge you for it. I’ve known far too many journalists and their mannerisms to find fault in yours. You’re a writer; all writers are afflicted with the gift of story, whether it’s imagined or not.”

  “I haven’t imagined anything.” Her shoulders tipped up in a shrug and she added, “I just wondered what you’re hiding, that’s all.”

  “Why do I have to be hiding anything? War doesn’t run on one of your schedules, Kája.”

  His barb struck a target he couldn’t have known existed. Guilt and fear—the constant companions that had been shut up in the recesses of her heart—they nudged her to remember the face of war she’d already seen. The image of her parents came back, shattered by loss on the train platform. She pictured them now with darkness marring their silhouette and the Nazi regime hovering close by like a bloodthirsty overlord.

  Regret latched on, dictating her thoughts.

  “I know that,” she whispered, the words fighting their way to the surface even as she refused to look up at him. “I found out well enough when I had to leave half of my family back in Nazioccupied Prague.”

  It was the first time she’d ever spoken of it, had ever come close to speaking of who she really was to anyone in London. And now, just like her inquisition of him, part of Kája’s story was out on the table.

  She chanced looking up at him. Not with her head, just with her eyes. They met over the table. And instead of teasing, his eyes offered something else entirely: openness.

  The sincerity was something she hadn’t expected from him. She knew it was rare. To see it now was something she couldn’t refuse to acknowledge. It prompted her to continue.

  “I told you. I have no family here in England. Remember? That first day in the office, you asked after them. I fled to Palestine with my sister and her husband. But things are not much better there. And our parents,” she admitted, swallowing hard. “They were left behind in Prague.”

  “Why?”

  “We had no choice. Or rather, they made the choice to get their daughters out while they still could. It was our last chance. The Nazis marched in and we ran out.” Aubur
n waves fell over her shoulder and she brushed them back, even shrugging slightly as she tried to play off the tears that were glazing her eyes. “You see . . . I’m half Jewish.”

  In a world such as theirs, she knew what it meant. And so did he. Concern marred his brow.

  “You were running for your life.” He tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly. “And that’s why you’re here? Because it’s safer for you.”

  She wiped at her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry to have brought you into my troubles.”

  “Everyone in London has troubles.” Liam opened his hands palms up and laid them on the table in front of him. “But what if I told you I was an open book? Since you’ve stuck your pretty little nose in further than anyone has a right to, you should know that I might have explained myself had you simply thought to ask.”

  Liam didn’t say anything else for a moment. His gaze was soft and unassuming. It fluttered her heart in such a way that she wondered if he had a notion to kiss her. It wasn’t unlike him to fly on the wings of the moment, no matter what was happening in the world around him.

  Kája pushed back the feeling of the nervous pit growing in her midsection.

  “I didn’t know you well enough to do so. No one does.”

  “And an exchange of wits is the only way to pull civility out of me?” He leaned back, eyebrows tilted up in question. “Classic. The occupational hazards of espionage do sink deep into one’s character.”

  “No,” she answered. “I hadn’t thought to trade wits. And I didn’t set out to investigate behind your back. You dropped a crossword under my desk weeks ago and I should have said something then. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know you.”

  He sighed.

  “Well, I’m here. Sitting in front of you. What would you say to me now?”

  “That we all have things that remain hidden. Things we’re not able to reveal.” She paused, choosing her words. “My father used to say that all of time is set to a clock—God’s clock. We’re given so much of it from sunrise to sunset each day. And it’s in God’s will that time continues to move. He watches over all of us, wherever we should go. He’s watching over my people in Prague and the people here in London, Liam, even as we spend nights in bomb shelters. And especially when fear overrides our feeling of safety.”

  Kája had said his name softly, with feeling she hadn’t expected, and he seemed to respond to it. Something in his face changed. And his shoulders eased—melting away the defensiveness, signaling her permission to continue.

  “You’re a part of that. I saw something in you tonight that I’m not sure you give others the chance to see. It wasn’t about chasing adventure. You truly cared about the people in that club, didn’t you? There was no way to know it was a drill and yet, you ran toward danger. You put others before yourself. And when you step out in the thick of battle and send your stories back, you’re printing words that give people hope. All of us are walking around with gas masks, but it’s some of the words in this paper that keep us going.”

  “I have no virtues even close to that measure of praise,” he began. “Drills are just practice. But the news is serious enough. Talk of war and men going off to fight and die in it—that’s serious business. And in my own way”—he sighed on the words—“I suppose that’s how I deal with it—work. Clubs? Dancing? They’re just diversions. It’s tricky business, living up to others’ standards when you’re hiding secrets of your own. But you already know all of mine, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Of course. Being Edmunton’s secretary means you would become privy to the innermost details of his work. But I had to ensure we could trust you first.” He tapped his finger against the crossword puzzle on the table. “It’s a tactic for Bletchley Park, the code-breaking center for His Majesty’s intelligence. A recruitment test. If anyone can complete it in twelve minutes or less, they qualify.”

  Kája looked down at the crossword she’d completed without knowing what weight the action had carried. She’d found patterns but only held it as a theory. Now she knew there was truth to it.

  “And that’s your job, then? The secret recruitment of government agents through the newspaper?”

  “Partly. But not so secret anymore, except from everyone else in this office.” Liam ran his fingers through his hair and smiled, as if giving up. “And by the way, I use journals.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve written in journals since I was a boy. The Remington is a beautiful piece of machinery, but I have always preferred putting real pencil to paper.”

  “Me too.” Kája returned his openness with a gentle smile. “I’ve even kept a journal here in London.”

  “So I suppose I owe you an apology for making you change so many typewriter ribbons. Edmunton thought it would prevent others from asking too many questions, so we kept up the practice as a ruse.” He shared a boyish smile. “I don’t think he bargained on hiring someone like you.”

  She felt warmth blush her cheeks at his praise. “So Edmunton is working for Bletchley Park too?”

  Liam shook his head. “No, but he’s allowed them to keep me here and to use the newspaper for recruiting purposes. It’s why I’m given leeway, so to speak, with the hours I keep around here.”

  “Are any of the others boys on the beat involved?”

  Liam didn’t answer.

  Seconds ticked by on the wall clock, accentuating the silence between them then. It was getting late. Kája wondered what he was thinking, why he stopped short of telling her more.

  “May I see you home?”

  His question was a surprise, but she tried not to show it.

  “I have a little more work to do first,” she said, offering a soft smile. She lifted the edge of her book from the table. “If that’s all right. Though not on the crossword.”

  “That would be fine with me. I’ll wait.”

  He stood and walked over to a bookshelf in the back. She heard his steps approach a moment later and the chair scraped the floor when he sat across from her once again.

  Liam held up the book in his hands.

  “I thought I’d see what the grand fuss is all about.”

  Kája returned his smile, offering a soft laugh to go with it. “You may not like Dickens, seeing as he’s quite taken with the downtrodden.”

  He allowed his mouth to tip up in a casual smile as he took reading glasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on the bridge of his nose.

  “Then I suppose I’m most fortunate he’s not the only one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  September 7, 1940

  East End, London

  Air-raid sirens screamed in the background.

  “Liam? It’s just a drill, right? It must be another false alarm.”

  Liam’s grip on her shoulder was steady, fusing her back up against the brick-walled building behind them. His eyes scanned the late-afternoon sky between the downtown shops.

  “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

  “But how can you be sure?” Kája whispered, and joined him in the surveillance of the sky above them, knotting her hands as she looked up into the cascade of soft blue.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary about this afternoon.

  It was an unseasonably warm Saturday. The sun beat down, baking the city in a heat reminiscent of high summer. Kája had woven her hair back in a loosely braided coil at her nape and wore a light, belted sundress of black-and-white pin-dot, all to stay cool as the mercury rose.

  The heat looked to be the biggest story maker of the day, at least until the sirens began to wail behind them. But it still meant next to nothing—there had been far too many false alarms over the past months to worry now. Everyone had become almost immune. There was no need to panic.

  At least they thought there’d been none.

  Now the people, the buildings, even the very air around them felt laden with anticipation. It was as if time had been paused somehow, as if
all of London were holding its breath.

  Liam shook his head, still scanning the sky.

  “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “What doesn’t feel right?”

  Kája looked up with him just as a series of loud pulses boomed in the background.

  Intense pressure rushed in from somewhere, almost as if the heat had managed to crawl beneath her skin and push from the inside out. She stood breathless, darting her eyes from the sky back and forth to Liam’s form in front of her. Her ears popped with another release of pressure from somewhere behind them.

  “Liam,” she whispered, her fists knotted together. “What was that?”

  There were still people hurrying along on the streets, passing them without a second glance. If it hadn’t been for Liam’s quick hands pulling her to the cover of the alley, she might have kept strolling along through the flower market with them. But now, in the midst of their Saturday-afternoon walk to buy flowers, everything had changed.

  He had changed.

  Right before her eyes, Liam had transformed into the fearless reporter she’d imagined him to be when out on assignment. She could see it in the calculating movements of his eyes, the firm set to his jaw, and the agile hold to his stance; he looked ready to spring at any threat.

  It unnerved her that he was so quiet.

  “Liam?”

  “Shh.” He gave the command with a finger to his pursed lips and an almost inaudible puff of exhaled breath. Still his eyes scanned overhead, his body blocking her from seeing much of the activity in the streets.

  The sirens screamed louder then. Closer. Echoing off the brick with a shrill wail that set her heart to racing. The crying sound made Kája want to ball up her fists and cover her ears with the agony of the panic it could generate. It screeched into the bottom layer of her subconscious, echoing the fear that at any moment, great iron-bellied beasts could be ripping through the sky with bombs aimed at their heads.

  They’d heard the earsplitting sirens before, many times. They’d prepared for attacks by ducking into air-raid shelters, even by clamoring under desks at The Daily Telegraph office one particularly scary morning. Everyone in London had prepared. Hitler had been bombing air fields and military targets for nearly two months, so the city was on edge. But even so, it just didn’t seem likely that it could ever happen—not in the heart of London.