A Sparrow in Terezin

by Kristy Cambron

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, sugar. What’s the trouble?”

  “Trixie, I’m a secretary—” she mumbled, then stopped short of adding, “so why is this on my desk?”

  Kája tilted her chin down, knowing her face must have registered shock. Or numbness. In truth, she felt like she’d been smacked across the cheek.

  “Too right, doll.” Trixie smirked and taking a slow drag on her cigarette, surveyed the bustling office. She puffed a cloud of smoke out into the air around them. “I only managed to sneak away from the switchboard for a cig and I’ll bet within thirty seconds, they’re hunting for me.” She sighed. “Good luck to the woman hoping to land any kind of promotion in this office full of stuffed-shirt men. We women may have jobs here now, but I’ll wager they’ll try to send us right back to the kitchens once this war is over and the boys come home.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Kája placed her hand over the stack of papers on the desktop, her heart feeling the weight of the horrific words again.

  “Really? You got a story to tell that’s better than a housewife’s stolen ration book?” Trixie leaned in close on a lazy sigh.

  “I actually think I might have,” Kája admitted, chewing her bottom lip, thinking things through.

  “I can keep a secret,” she twittered, and smiled with her usual red pout more suited to a party-goer on a Friday night. “Spill.”

  Kája looked up at Trixie, whose face held a wide-eyed expression of bemused wonder. Her eyebrows arched up to a dizzying degree and she stared back, eager.

  “Where is Mr. Edmunton?”

  Trixie made a tsk noise under her tongue and tilted her head toward the end of the newsroom. “Old Herbert? In his office.” She crossed her arms over her chest before continuing. “With the door closed—the crabby buzzard. Why?”

  Kája looked to the glass-walled office. She could see him sitting behind the oversized oak desk, with a phone handset up to his ear and a stone-faced expression carrying his gaze to a point fixed somewhere out the windows. He ran a hand over the receding hairline at his brow.

  The scene sounded alarm bells in her ears.

  Kája shook her head. “Something’s wrong.”

  “No doubt. He hasn’t stepped out of that office for hours. I haven’t seen him this quiet since the Blitz.” Trixie lowered her voice. Kája had to lean in to hear over the ringing phones and incessant punching of typewriter keys that kept up a steady hum in the background. “And the boys on the war beat have been gone so long that everyone’s beginning to wonder. The switchboard girls are all waiting for someone to tell us to head down to the shelters, like it’s 1940 all over again.”

  On instinct, Kája stole a quick glance over at the desk in the corner.

  His desk.

  It hadn’t been occupied today. Or all month, for that matter. And remembering the Blitz bombings always sent her thoughts back to Liam. Kája tried her best not to picture the dashing reporter dodging bullets as he typed up stories from behind enemy lines. At least once a day, sometimes more, her eyes would drift to Liam Marshall’s prized 1920s-era Remington, which sat untouched atop his desk. It made the corner of the floor seem so lonely, and her lonely with it.

  “I know what you’re thinking. We haven’t seen the ace reporter in a while.” Trixie leaned in, laying a supportive hand on Kája’s arm. “The girls have been listening for him, I promise. But it seems we only get calls from Kemsley House now. While the men in the print shop are sequestered up there just to make sure the paper’s still printing, we sit here surrounded by empty chairs for weeks on end. All the London boys are off chasing a story somewhere, aren’t they, now that they’ve been called up? So here we sit, with Edmunton and the rest of the bores. I don’t know what they call that in Prague, but here in London we call it a jip.”

  She stared at their editor’s office.

  “Edmunton has been shut in there all day, hasn’t he?”

  “You should know—you’re his secretary,” Trixie chirped, then noticing the seriousness Kája had allowed to seep over her face, clamped a hand around her elbow. “Wait a minute. You’ve got something real, haven’t you? What is it?”

  Kája shot up from her wooden swivel chair as if a spring had been built in the hammered leather cushion and with the article in hand, stepped over to his office. She rapped her knuckles on the glass door and opened it enough to poke her head inside.

  “Sir, might I have a moment?”

  “Not now, Miss Makovský.” Edmunton slammed the phone down in its cradle and waved her back.

  Kája ignored his brush-off and stepped into the office anyway.

  She closed the door with an intentional click behind her and stood, leaning up against the doorframe, waiting for him to look up. He didn’t. Instead, he began scribbling something on a note pad and heaved a heavy sigh.

  Receiving no notice, Kája decided to force her hand. She took a step toward the desk and held the article out in front of him. She let the paper float down to the desktop.

  “That was mixed in with my articles for the day.”

  He took one look and shot a glance up to meet hers, eyes nearly popping out of his head.

  “How did you get this?” he barked, and snatched the paper up. He waved it out in front of her and looked around the newsroom, as if her accomplices could be expected to join them in his office at any moment. “Who else has seen it?”

  Kája wasn’t offended, nor was she scared. On this day she would overlook the man’s ill-mannered constitution in order to get what she needed from him: the truth.

  She slid into the chair opposite the desk and sat, arms folded and unyielding. Her heart was melting and her knees would be knocking had her legs been uncrossed. Even so, she set her back pin-straight and calmly waited for him to offer the details she so desperately needed.

  “You’ve made your point.” One of his eyebrows arched up and he eyed her, with what she judged was a most accusatory glance. With a gruffness that sounded like he’d swallowed a mouth full of stones, he charged, “But you’ll answer me, Miss Makovský. Where did you get this?” He looked past her to the row of empty desks lining the wall beyond his office. “Did Marshall have anything to do with this?”

  “Mr. Marshall has nothing to do with this. He’s not been back to the office for weeks. You know that,” she said, noting that because of what she knew of the crosswords, Liam’s activities were tied with hers whether she liked it or not. “I think it’s an honest mistake that it ended up in my stack of copy for the war beat. What I’d like to know is whether or not it’s true.”

  “And as your superior in this office, I am the one who will be asking the questions.”

  “No one has seen it to my knowledge. Yet.” Kája notched her chin a little higher as she delivered the veiled threat.

  The usually gruff man surprised her then and exhaled, a rather sad expression taking over his features. “Yes. If what we’re receiving on the wire is true, and it looks like it is . . . they’re being killed by the thousands.”

  “But how could this happen? If it were true, how could the Nazis possibly hide something like this?”

  “Have you forgotten? The Polish government is exiled here in London. It stands to reason that they’d have heard about it first. And as you are aware, we make it our business to know what’s happening with this war, both for His Majesty’s government and for the people of Great Britain. I don’t need to tell you that if there’s a story to be had, our chaps out there will hunt it down.”

  Kája felt her throat close up.

  “It appears they’ve even found a way of gassing them by the hundreds at a time, poor souls,” he said with a huff. “What does it matter how? The point is, they’re doing it and the world has to know. We’re running it tomorrow.”

  Kája’s eyes popped open. “On the front page?”

  “That has not been decided yet.” Edmunton took the paper and rolled it in his hands.

  There was only one thing left to ask, tho
ugh she worried he would see straight through her to the beating heart in her chest.

  “Did Mr. Marshall write it?”

  Edmunton paused and eyed her. “And why would you think to ask that question?”

  She answered immediately, “Gut instinct.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll thank you to tell your gut to keep quiet and mind your work, Miss Makovský—the work you’ve been assigned to.”

  Her thoughts poured out then, in an almost inaudible series of whispers.

  “It just doesn’t seem real. It couldn’t be. It’s too horrible . . .” She felt her chin quiver slightly and her hand flew up to cover the show of emotion.

  Her editor must have seen the slight vulnerability, because he cleared his throat with a soft hrrumph and looked back down at the stack of papers littering his desk.

  “Miss Makovský?”

  Kája shook off her momentary stupor and looked up. She met the older man’s gray eyes staring back at her.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The last thing I need is a woman weeping in my office,” he said, though the brash of his usually harsh tone had turned unmistakably kind. “Now, unless you would like to stay and heat the water for my tea, I suggest you get back to work. And do be smart about it.”

  He raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin toward the bustling newsroom beyond the glass.

  “Off with you now. And keep this to yourself until it runs.” He pointed his pencil at her and for good measure, added, “That’s an order.”

  Kája jumped when the phone on his desk cried out with a shrill tone that set her ears to ringing. He picked it up and nearly shouted, “Telegraph. Edmunton.” And she found herself dismissed.

  Kája stood and walked out, gingerly closing the door behind her. She froze for a moment while the newsroom continued erupting with its usual activity. She scanned the floor, feeling numb to the hustle of reporters as their resonant laughter and the pounding of typewriter keys created a hum of energy all around her. The sounds were impersonal, the air agitating.

  She felt panic taking over and heaven help her, if she didn’t escape the office she feared she’d scream in front of the lot of them.

  Kája’s feet seemed to have a life of their own; they carried her through the office at a quickened pace. She stopped at her desk just long enough to fumble for her purse and whisper a passing “I have to go,” to Trixie, who folded her arms across her chest and stared dumbfounded as Kája ducked into the nearest elevator.

  She didn’t stop. Not until the elevator chimed at the bottom floor and she’d passed through the lobby, almost running in her heels, and burst through the front doors to the bustle of the London streets beyond.

  Just like she’d done all those months before, when the Blitz had wounded them all so grievously, Kája stared up at the sky. She wasn’t afraid of planes or bombs now; that fear had long since become commonplace in every Londoner’s life. Instead, she stared into the deep blue overhead, wondering if God was up there watching.

  Did he see what was happening in their world—in her world? With the headline came confirmation that the entire world was on fire.

  Heaven help me, she thought, fresh tears stinging at her eyes. I have to get my parents out of Prague before they’re killed too.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  June 30, 1942

  Paddington Station

  London

  Rain pounded the windows of the cab.

  The end of June had been sunny and pleasant up to this point. But now the sky seemed to let loose with reckless abandon. It poured down on the Londoners hurrying along the streets, some with umbrellas pulled low and others braving the onslaught without any protection at all. Their figures darted under awnings and ducked into alleyways as water fell in unforgiving sheets around the city.

  Kája gazed out as the car drove by monstrous piles of battered brick and timber that had come crashing down in the Blitz years before. Gutted buildings lay on both sides of the street like giant brick beasts slumbering in the pelting summer rain, their images bleeding into a cascade of ruddy reds and browns by the lines of water trickling down the glass.

  Squeaky brakes drew her attention, and the cab slowed to a stop in front of Paddington Station.

  “We’re here, miss,” the driver said, cockney accent thick even behind the weight of his smelly cigar.

  Kája retrieved money from her purse and dropped enough to cover the fare into his outstretched hand. But she hesitated before stepping out, her palm fused to the door handle.

  He checked his watch. “You’ll be gettin’ out, then, miss?”

  “Oh yes.” She’d hesitated only a moment, trying to steel her resolve. “I’m sorry.”

  After relaxing the cigar on his bottom lip, the burly man softened his tone.

  “The train.” He pointed to the busy platform beyond the car windows. “It’s that way, if you be wanting to catch yer ride.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, I’m sure.”

  Kája tugged her small suitcase from the seat and pulled her handbag strap up over her wrist until it rested in the crook of her elbow. She opened the door to a rush of misty rain that sprayed her cheeks. Rain trickled down the chocolate brown–piped collar of her pale-blue suit, making it feel soggy and cold.

  He’ll be here . . .

  Kája thought about the journey ahead. About what she had to do. And as she stopped at the ticket office and deposited her luggage with the porter, she tried to reassure herself that Liam would show up. He’d always been there before and he’d surely not let her down now.

  She ran to the shelter of the platform and stopped under a dark-green awning adorned with a Union Jack garland, shaking raindrops off the lengths of her sleeves.

  “You’re always early.”

  Kája whirled around at the sound of the voice.

  “Liam?” She peeked out from under the brim of her rain-soaked hat, disbelieving for a moment that the man standing tall in his officer’s hat and military-issue coat could be the same laid-back reporter she’d come to know.

  It had only been months, but he seemed older. Taller even. Somehow more confident. She’d never seen him in uniform and it hushed her that he almost looked like a different man because of it now.

  “I checked with the station master. The next train doesn’t depart for another half an hour.” He tipped his head toward the clock by the ticket office. “Your most predictable traits,” he said. “Kája Makovský—she’s always proper. Always follows the rules. But most importantly, she’s early to every party.”

  “Yes. That does sound like me,” she breathed out, relieved to find him standing there making small talk about her mannerisms when she hadn’t heard from him in weeks.

  “I received your message.” He offered her a forced smile. “I was at Bletchley, thankfully. An hour and a half drive from the Buckinghamshire countryside is a sight better than trying to fly in from overseas, so I’m glad you caught me in time.”

  “Is that where you’ve been? Across the Channel?”

  “You had to have known I would get leave soon,” he said, avoiding her question. “You couldn’t wait to talk this out?”

  She looked up cautiously, then turned to sorting the contents of her handbag, looking for her ticket. She didn’t know he’d taken a step forward until his fingertips brushed her elbow.

  Every part of her froze.

  Liam reached out for the handbag and gingerly pulled it from her wrist. He set it down on the bench behind them and tossed his hat down beside it. She refused to look up at him.

  “Kája,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the trickles of rain patterning the awning roof. Her eyes met the soft sky of his. “There’s no need to act as though you’re searching for your ticket when I’d wager you know exactly where it is.”

  Kája took a deep breath and fought to find words, but he continued.

  “Perhaps we can move past pretenses, then. Forgive me if I sound put off, but no one in h
er right mind would think to go hop-scotching through the middle of a war.”

  “Liam, please. I called you here to help, not badger me.”

  He took another measured step toward her, enough so that she thought he might step on the tips of her toes.

  “I’m serious, Kája. When you send me a cryptic telegram that you’re headed for the heart of Nazi-occupied territory, how am I supposed to react? You’ve gone completely mad.”

  “You don’t understand,” she muttered, looking down at the ground for a moment. She decided it was cowardly though, and faced him. “My family is all I have.”

  “Not true.” He shook his head on the flat denial. “And you forget—I do understand what it’s like to worry about a parent.”

  “I know you do,” she backtracked, thinking of the terror they’d all experienced during the worst of the Blitz raids. “And I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve built a life here. But all the while—what I’ve left behind has been there, in the back of my mind, on the surface of my heart. And now, knowing what the Nazis are doing to Jews?”

  Kája held up a newspaper in front of him, its folds of waterlogged newsprint smearing ink across her gloved hand. She pointed to the screaming headline of the Nazis’ latest assault on humanity and half begged, “Tell me. Did you write it?”

  He remained stone-faced.

  “This I can’t ignore. You must see that.” Kája searched his face and when she felt brave enough, whispered, “Do you remember what I told you that night after the club?”

  Liam nodded.

  “I remember,” he said, and placed his hand over her gloved fingers to lower hers. He turned round, spotted the bench behind them, and tugged her back. “Let’s sit.”

  The gesture was so tender and unexpected that she felt compelled to obey. They slid into the bench, both watching absently as travelers bustled through the rain showering the platform.

  “I knew it had something to do with the article,” he said, shaking his head. “I just didn’t think you’d take it like this.”

  “You knew about it then? That Jews are being murdered?”